


Chosen

by 5moreminutes



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Don't copy to another site, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Enemies to Lovers, Eventual Fluff, Eventual Sex, Explicit Consent, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Healthy Relationships, Hogwarts Seventh Year, Hogwarts Sixth Year, Hurt/Comfort, POV Alternating, dramione - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-03
Updated: 2019-08-30
Packaged: 2019-09-06 12:14:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 51
Words: 148,280
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16832419
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/5moreminutes/pseuds/5moreminutes
Summary: Draco Malfoy has a mission to complete, and no one can help him. An irritating Prefect arrangement sparks an unlikely relationship, but is it enough to make the Boy Who Made All the Wrong Choices change sides?





	1. Probation

Most of the prefects on Professor McGonagall’s list didn’t surprise her. Ron Weasley, Hermione Granger, Penelope Clearwater, Michael Corner, Ernie MacMillan, Hannah Abbott, Gemma Gribbett. It was customary for fifth-year students who had been designated prefects to keep the title for the remainder of their tenure at Hogwarts. Barring academic failure, medical incapacity, or what old Hogwarts rules described as “grave failure of character,” once a prefect, always a prefect was standard. The problem was Draco Malfoy.

After Lucius Malfoy was captured in the Battle of the Department of Mysteries, and subsequently escaped before he could be detained in Azkaban Prison, rumor had buzzed all summer about the entire Malfoy family. Dumbledore’s contacts had reported for months about an increase of known Death Eaters frequenting Malfoy Manor. Professor McGonagall knew how to temper her own inclination to distrust Slytherin students, especially those whose parents had Death Eater history. She understood quite well that rumors were only rumors and the seriousness of her responsibility to evaluate students on their own merits, rather than their parents’ choices. Even so, if there was any possibility that some of the murmurs McGonagall had heard were true, it could be a serious mistake to readmit the Malfoy heir as a student, let alone in a position of power over others. Snape, and even Dumbledore, it seemed, did not share her concerns.

As the circumstances stood, her only recourse was to meet with Malfoy in her office at the beginning of term, which was where she currently sat. He was late.

He swept in ten minutes late, in fact, and folded himself into the chair before she could invite him to sit.

“What on earth do you want?” he snapped.

“That tone will not be necessary,” McGonagall said. “Mister Malfoy, you have been named one of the Slytherin prefects--”

“I’m aware. Professor.”

_“_ _Provisional_ status.”

Draco leaned forward, eyes narrowed. “What?”

“As such, you will still be expected to perform the necessary duties of a prefect, but certain privileges will be limited--”

“This is an outrage,” Malfoy said, baring his teeth.

“Kindly refrain from interrupting me, Mister Malfoy,” McGonagall said, her tone clipped with impatience. “You will be expected to report for all meetings and complete other normal prefect assignments as usual. You will still be permitted to use the prefects’ lounge and other reserved facilities. However, until your re-evaluation at the end of term, you will be excluded from prefect trips, including the holiday Hogsmeade visit, you will confine yourself to standard curfew hours unless accompanied by another prefect, and you will not have authority to deduct points from students or assign detentions without another prefect’s signature to confirm the decision. You will also perform regular hall patrol duties in the presence of another prefect at all times.”

Malfoy looked ready to leap out of his seat at this point. “You’ve lost your mind. You may as well not make me a prefect at all.”

“Believe me, Mister Malfoy, the thought has occurred to me. Your abuses of your authority last year were a clear failure to live up to the dignity associated with the honor of this role. It is thanks to the quality of your grades, and to certain members of the faculty who vouched for you, that you are awarded this position for a second year at all.” Snape, usually laconic as ever in faculty meetings about student matters, had insisted that Malfoy be offered a second chance. 

“As an additional courtesy,” McGonagall continued, “your provisional status will not be announced formally to the student body. The other prefects will be briefed. I might recommend using your own discretion to perform your duties without arousing suspicion of your limitations. It is not my intention to humiliate you.”

“Save your suggestions,” he spat. “You’ve meddled more than enough already. Are we done?”

Professor McGonagall sighed. “Until the prefects’ meeting tomorrow evening, yes. You may go.”

*

Hermione Granger helped herself to a mug of tea when she arrived for the prefects’ start-of-term meeting. She expected she’d need it. 

It had been a strange summer, and she was glad to be back at Hogwarts. Hermione had spent much of the summer at the Weasleys’ Burrow. She had missed her parents terribly, but it seemed wiser to stay within the wizarding community. 

Ever since Harry had told her and Ron about Voldemort’s return, it was clear to her that Muggle-borns would be the first target of any hateful activity, whether by Death Eaters themselves or even other frightened witches and wizards looking for ways to lash out. Hermione would have liked nothing better than to wrap herself in her mother’s embrace, go bicycling with her father, and curl up in her old bedroom with a stack of books and new music from her favorite non-magical bands, but she was afraid to draw too much attention to her parents. Most people in the magical community wouldn’t know much about how Muggles stored identification records, and her surname, while not as ubiquitous as Smith or Johnson, was common enough. Avoiding Knight Bus trips or other magical transportation to her hometown could help keep her parents hidden from prying eyes, or so she hoped.

She’d also hoped, for much of the summer, that Ron would have turned out to be a better source of comfort than he’d ended up being. They’d always had a hint of something more than best friendship between them, or so Hermione had thought. Ron seemed content to toss her into the bustle of the Weasley household to fend for herself. Various family members burst into the bedroom when Hermione wanted a quiet hour to read. Ginny didn’t see any problem with using the toilet while Hermione showered because “they’re both girls.” Mr. Weasley used dinnertime as an occasion to pummel her with questions on how Muggle postal services, elementary education, banking, and driver’s ed classes worked. She tried to respond politely, but privately found it exhausting to always be “on.” If Ron had feelings for her, wouldn’t he have noticed her emotional wear, and done something to support her? His oblivious lack of concern had certainly put a damper on her own romantic thoughts.

She shook her head. “Focus, Hermione,” she muttered under her breath. Prefects’ meeting, then unpacking into her own room in Gryffindor Tower, and tomorrow classes would start. Keep her mind occupied, that was the way to keep herself together.

“Are you going to stand there all night?” Malfoy jostled her aside, spilling tea over the edge of her cup onto the saucer, soaking the thin chocolate biscuit she’d placed beside the teacup. He was a head taller than her, just the right height to glare down his nose at her, his white-blond hair parted with razor precision. His gaze dropped to her hand.

“Clumsy little Mudblood,” he sneered. “Getting your filthy paws on food meant for your betters, too. Sit and wait your turn next time.” 

“Or you could be patient for five seconds instead of knocking around like an oaf,” Hermione retorted. She waved her hand at the table with a flourish. “Be my guest, then. It’s all yours.”

“Hardly seems worth it, now you’ve touched everything.” He made a show of wiping the handle of the teapot down with a napkin before pouring himself a cup. He raised his eyebrows at the tray of biscuits and took a green apple from a bowl instead, leaning in close enough to her when he bit it that Hermione could smell its sharp scent. 

Ron ambled in then, frowning. “What’s his problem?”

“The usual,” Hermione muttered. “Ignore him.”

“Pompous git.”

“Language, Mr. Weasley,” Professor McGonagall said, striding in behind him. “Forgive my tardiness. After so many years, I shouldn’t be surprised by the amount of attention first-year students require, but they seem to look younger each year. I am pleased to welcome each of you back as prefects, and I and the other faculty will rely on you this year to help ensure that your fellow students have a fruitful and enjoyable year, particularly those who are just beginning their education at Hogwarts.”

Hermione settled into a comfortable chair between Penelope Clearwater and Hannah Abbott as McGonagall launched into the prefects’ briefing. She knew it well. Besides serving as a prefect in her fifth year, Hermione had more or less memorized the prefects’ handbook. Prefects, ideally, were supposed to be official mentors for the student body at large, and students in their House in particular. They led House orientation activities and icebreakers to help first-years find their classes and begin making friends. They had disciplinary authority, but they also had some basic conflict mediation training so they could counsel fights between dorm mates and recognize signs that garden-variety homesickness was slipping into more serious mental health territory. If requested by a student, prefects could sit in on faculty-student meetings to offer moral support. Some prefects--Hermione cast an eye at the Slytherin couch--tended toward bullying or favoritism, but she enjoyed the sense that she ought to play almost a big-sister role.

You spent a lot of time together, on hall monitoring duty. Close friendships were an unspoken perk of the job. Some prefects ended up marrying each other. Hermione didn’t always make friends easily, so the chance to get to know a few people in a structured way appealed to her. Having both Ron and Malfoy on the roster detracted from this goal, of course. Ron she knew well already, and Malfoy...well, there were plenty of obvious reasons for him to fall on the “Cons” side of her mental list.

Her ears pricked at his name just then.

“Mr. Malfoy is here on provisional prefect status,” McGonagall was saying. “As such, he will need authorization from another one of you to deliver certain merits or punishments. I trust that all of you will keep his status confidential so as not to provoke disrespect from other students, and that you will all endeavor to be fair in any student dealings, as befits this role.”

For once, Ron got it first. 

“Malfoy’s a lame duck?” he said, chortling. “He can’t do anything without our say-so?” He leaned forward and grinned at Malfoy. “I was going to ask McGonagall how to get out of hall duty with a tosser like you, but now I’m ready to pay her for the privilege.”

“Pay her in what, moldy jumpers?” Malfoy pulled two Galleon coins out of a pocket in his robes and clicked them together. “Has anyone in your family ever heard that sound before? Put it in your Pensieve so you can share it at home.”

Ron reddened.

“That will be quite enough,” McGonagall said. “I will post the hall monitoring roster in the Prefects’ Lounge tomorrow. For tonight, we will have Mr. Weasley and Mr. Corner, Miss Clearwater and Miss Abbott, and Miss Granger and Mr. Malfoy.”

Both Hermione and Malfoy jumped forward in their seats as if stung. McGonagall held up a hand.

“The roster will rotate to allow a fair distribution of assignments.” She looked over her glasses at the students sitting before her. “I’m sure I can trust all of you to behave with the utmost maturity.”

*

“Bushy-haired rodent.”

“Rich, coming from an albino ferret!”

“You dare--”

“You better believe it.”

It was near the end of hour two of a standard, three-hour hall monitoring shift. Hermione and Malfoy had managed gritted-teeth civility for the first twenty minutes, while the initial swarms of students floundered around, trying to navigate the shifting staircases to their Houses. Malfoy had started it, swearing at her under his breath when she’d accidentally stepped on the hem of his robe on the stairs. For the next forty minutes, they’d griped at each other in quick bursts between three searches for lost cats and toads, two nurse visits, and endless repetitions of the House passwords. 

For the last hour, since standard curfew began, it had been a free-for-all.

“It’s insulting that you’d even be considered to have power over other students.”

Hermione laughed sharply. “I bet it is. Especially since I’ve managed to keep my full rights, and you’re limping along. Bet that stings your pride.”

“Brash bitch,” he snarled. “You should be on your knees every night giving thanks you’re tolerated in this place at all.”

“‘Tolerated’ well enough to be first in our class every term, it would seem.”

“Yes, I’m aware,” Malfoy sneered. “Miss Granger, Queen of the library, highest marks in her year. Do you want my congratulations?” 

“I don’t want, or expect, anything from you, Malfoy,” she said, trying to sound cool and aloof. “Although I think the fact that even you can’t help acknowledging my talents is telling enough.”

Malfoy rolled his eyes. “Spare me. You’ve let your pathetic friends and a few teachers go to your head, Granger. The true wizards in this place know what you really are.”

“Oh yes? And what would that be?”

“You’re the stuffy little Mudblood who’s never belonged here. Your mind works well enough, I’ll grant; you’d be amusing for party tricks, perhaps, as a curiosity. Like a talking gopher. You’re a grating, screeching, busybody slattern with a broomstick up your ass. You’re the research flunky of the Golden Trio, the brainy priss Potter uses when he’s too lazy to try to understand, which is often. You’d better hope you never outlive your usefulness to them, because you’ll find there isn’t anything in this world for you outside the library.”

“You think other students are impressed by you?” Hermione shot back, raising her voice to drown out the bite of his words. “Harry knew after meeting you once that you weren’t worth his time. You bought your way onto your Quidditch team, I’ve beaten you in every class we’ve shared, every year, and the only ‘friends’ I’ve ever seen you with are such brainless dolts that I could animate a mop with a blond wig on it and they wouldn’t know the difference. You may have some money and influence because of your father, and good thing for you, because I have yet to see you do something worthwhile on your own. I hope you’re reminded every day of your useless life that everyone you look down on now will beat you, if they haven’t already.”

They’d been circling the shifting staircases, making their way down floor by floor, the halls beginning to waft the cool, mineral smell of stone underground, along with the sharp tang of guano from the modest bat colony that sheltered within Hogwarts. When they reached the steps down to the dungeons, Malfoy threw out a hand to block her, almost making her trip.

“I’ll handle these myself. This is Pureblood territory.”

“There’s no such thing,” Hermione said. “Besides, you’re not allowed unsupervised hall duty.” She stepped forward, but Malfoy blocked her again, throwing his forearm up against her collarbone. His grey eyes were flat with hatred.

“Your putrid kind may have infiltrated the classes in this place,” he hissed. “But there are a few corridors left untainted by your stench, and I won’t have you contaminating them.”

“Hogwarts chooses students by ability, not blood status,” Hermione said coldly. “McGonagall chose me as a prefect and I will not--” She stopped, mouth still open in indignation and alarm. Malfoy’s hawthorn wand was in his hand, the tip trained at her heart.

“Take one more step,” he said quietly. “And I’ll say you tripped down the stairs. All these other students saw you fall.”

“There’s no one else here.”

“That’s not what they’ll say,” he said, lips curling in a vicious smile. “This is the Slytherin’s home, our last Pureblood refuge against the waves of filth they admit to this crumbling excuse for a school. You may have charmed a few doddering old professors into your disgusting hand, but don’t fool yourself into thinking you’re wanted here.” He prodded the wand an inch closer toward her. “I won’t say it again. Get back.”

Hermione almost launched herself at him then. Bookish as she might be most days, she’d Sorted into Gryffindor for a reason. In a one-on-one duel, she had no doubt she could teach Malfoy some long-overdue humility. If the other Slytherins did come to protect their precious, Pureblood dungeon, though, she was less sure she could disarm twenty students without getting hurt, and she could hardly explain to McGonagall why such a brawl could have been necessary. She took a step backward.

Malfoy smirked. He watched her retreat, clearly relishing every step she took. “That’s a good little Gryffindor. You sit right there and wait for me.”

And she did. Shaking with rage, counting the seconds until he’d finished a cursory round through the dungeons. When he swaggered back, victorious smile still playing on his lips, she had her wand ready.

“Your turn,” she said, keeping her voice as low and steady as possible. “Sit.”

He folded his arms, creasing his forehead in mock sympathy. “Bravery isn’t impressive so long after the fact, Granger.”

“Expelliarmus!” His wand flew out of his pocket, into her waiting hand. “I will Petrify you if I have to, Malfoy. Sit. Down.”

“Give it back.”

“Now.”

“You repulsive Mudblood, don’t you dare lay another finger on it.”

Hermione held his wand up to her mouth. “I will lick it if you don’t sit down this instant.” She parted her lips, feeling a thrill of satisfaction at the horrified expression on Malfoy’s face, even if privately the thought of touching her tongue to his wand made her want to gag, too. 

Malfoy sat.

“That’s better,” Hermione said. “Now you listen to me: Don’t ever threaten me again. Ever. You despicable, egotistical bastard, you so much as point your wand in my direction and I’ll report you. You could already be suspended. Touch me, and I’ll get you under the Code of Wand Use, and the RRUS, and I’ll squeeze every Galleon I can out of you and your entire family in Hexing Ban fines. You want your father to hear how this  _ Mudblood  _ threw your sorry ass out of Hogwarts?”

Malfoy’s gaze wavered, just for a second. He disguised it by cleaning a fleck of dirt from under one fingernail. “Why not go ahead and report me now, then?” 

“Because I,” Hermione growled, “am a better person than you’ll ever dream of being.” She dropped Malfoy’s wand next to him with a clatter and stalked away, before he could look up from her fist still clenched around her own wand. There was a knot in her throat threatening to choke her, and the worst thing she could possibly do was let him see.


	2. Lonely

Draco sat at the Slytherin table, sharp chin resting in his hand. His head hurt. Only two weeks into a new term, and it felt like months. It was difficult to pay attention in classes. Not much sense in studying for NEWTS, after all. Amazing, and pathetic, really, how eager most people were to bury their heads in the sand. 

Not all of them, of course. His gaze drifted toward the Gryffindor table. He and that lousy Squib Filch had never definitively proven that Potter and his lackeys were stirring up a little army, but Malfoy knew a thing or two about the Boy Who Lived. No way would he turn down a chance to play glorious leader. It was cruel of him, really, giving other students hope that their jinxes would save them against Death Eaters. Against the Dark Lord.

Draco hadn’t ever seen the Dark Lord, personally. He’d met multiple high-ranking Death Eaters, who interrogated him and passed on the assignment he’d have to complete to prove himself. His father had been punished for his failures last year, but it had been his idea for Draco to lead the overthrow of Hogwarts, and this had pleased You-Know-Who. Draco’s father seemed to come awake after Draco accepted the assignment. His mother had been the one to suggest delaying giving Draco the Mark. They couldn’t trust other students, even other Slytherins, and it would be difficult to keep the Mark hidden 24/7.

For anyone who was listening, he acted annoyed with his mother. Privately, he was relieved. The great werewolf that had brought him to Borgin and Burkes--Fenrir--made a sound between a laugh and a growl when he talked about branding the fresh blood. It didn’t inspire confidence. And then there really wouldn’t be any choice left but submission to You-Know-Who.

He hadn’t said the name out loud. Even thinking it made him feel cold.

Around him, Slytherin students griped at each other. Two fourth-years Charmed a first-year’s spoon into a snake as a prank, snickering when the new kid jumped. Malfoy kept his posture straight and his face composed. He tried to imagine himself striding into Malfoy Manor to meet with the Death Eaters, tripping that brute Greyback with an elegant walking cane, without so much as a flicker of fear. He looked across the hall again, caught by a peal of laughter. Granger was bent over the table with her hands over her mouth, eyes crinkled with mirth. Potter was laughing, too. Weasley looked as sheepish and bedraggled as he always did, but he was grinning at the pair of them with obvious affection.

Pathetic. But he couldn’t bring himself to laugh at them. He bit the inside of his cheek, watching the two boys bend their head in toward Granger in the middle, talking and gesturing over each other. It didn’t make him feel good to watch them, but he didn’t want to look away.

The rest of the day went the way most days did in this stinking hole. Go from class to class. Spend a few hours in the library reading technical manuals and dusty textbooks on the history of magical artifacts. Swallow a bowl of chicken stew without tasting it. Spend another few hours trying out what he’d learned on the Vanishing Cabinet, and hopefully have any progress to show for his work. Trudge up and down the halls with one of the prefects. 

Granger was leaving the prefects’ lounge with Weasley as he arrived to meet Clearwater, his assigned partner for the evening. Pity. He could have used some stress relief, and seeing how long it took to make Granger fire back was an amusing game.

Granger glared at him and picked up her pace. She must be wearing heels of some kind under her robes. Her steps clicked against the stone floors. Draco was mildly impressed. So she did think further than whatever book was at the end of her nose. She didn’t break stride or give way as she passed, so he was forced to sidestep to avoid a collision.

“Watch it, Granger.” His voice came out in a croak. His throat felt scratchy for some reason. 

Clearwater floated out, head held high. She couldn’t be baited. The Ravenclaw witch’s expression never wavered even a miniscule amount. One hall monitoring session had been enough for Malfoy to understand that she’d resolved to play completely blind and deaf to him, and that she had the discipline to follow through. It wasn’t worth the frustration or indignity of trying to force her attention.

And so, he realized that night, after he’d undressed for bed and was waiting for his racing mind to calm down, that’s how it happened that those three words to Granger were the only words he’d spoken to another human being all day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some chapters are short! ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ My comfy length for chapters is usually around the 2000-4000 word range or so, but I occasionally fall outside those bounds. More coming tomorrow!


	3. On Magical Knitting and the Means of Production

Hannah Abbott found Hermione in the Quidditch stands one sunny afternoon that felt more like a last flash of summer than the beginning of fall. The Hufflepuff was wearing her blond hair in two braids, and she twisted the end of one between her fingers.

“You’re a fan of Quidditch, are you?” she said.

“Sure,” said Hermione. 

“You must be, if you’re watching tryouts.” Hannah gave her a worried smile. “I’m in the Knitting Club. I’m trying a hybrid knit. Two magical needles and two in the hand.”

“That’s wonderful. Sounds tricky,” Hermione said politely.

“It is.” Hannah tugged the elastic off her braid by accident and hurriedly twisted it back into place, jerking the hair tie harder than she needed to. “It’s just I hate to ask you, you know. I know the rules are in place so everything’s fair, and Helga herself knows you’ve probably got it worse than me, but you always keep such a cool head in classes, so I thought maybe you wouldn’t mind if I asked. You can say no. That’s fine, if you do. I’ll work something else out.”

“Work what out? Hannah, back up. What did you want to ask me about?”

Hannah’s face twisted in an apologetic grimace. “D’you think--I mean, would you even consider switching with me? Tonight? I’m on with Malfoy, and he was so horrible last time. I had to excuse myself for a bit, to compose myself. Maybe it’s just his sense of humor,” she said doubtfully. “I swear I’m trying not to let him get to me, but I’ve just been dreading it.”

Hermione nodded. “Of course, Hannah, I’ll switch with you.”

“Really?” Hannah’s grin lit up her face. “Thanks, you’ve no idea what a load that is off my back. I’ll make it up to you, I promise.”

“Don’t worry about it. Really. I’ll deal with Malfoy.”

Hermione had been having an easier time than she’d expected, in fact. Since the first fight, their agreement had held, and neither one of them had pulled a wand on the other. So what if every word out of his mouth was an insult. She’d never expected anything else from him. Spending three hours as a captive audience for his hatred would still have been too much to stomach on a regular basis, if it wasn’t for her secret game.

She mentally assigned them points for each unique insult. First one to reach twenty won most creative fighter of the night. Use one of the forbidden words, and you lost a point. His forbidden words were  _ filth  _ and  _ Mudblood _ , of course. Hers were  _ prat, prick, slimy, _ and  _ pompous _ \--more taboos for her to compensate for his overuse of his words, and for the fact that he didn’t know they were competing.

After all, she had to give him a chance.

When Malfoy saw her that evening, he smiled. Hermione hadn’t expected that. She would have thought she was mistaken--she was still a little distance away--except that the expression changed his face too much. She’d never imagine Malfoy looking like that. It wasn’t one of his customary smirks; it looked suspiciously like a genuine smile. It opened his face somehow, relaxed the sharpness of his features and brought out a different light in his eyes. It was unnerving.

By the time Hermione was close enough to get a better look, he’d tightened his face back into his usual scowl.

“Granger.”

“Hello, Malfoy,” Hermione said. “You ready?”

“Bright and cheery this evening, are we, Mudblood?”

“Now, now,” Hermione sighed, turning down toward the main staircase. “That’s hardly the way to set yourself up for a successful evening.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” 

“I’ve had a good day so far. We’ve got a long three hours ahead of us, and I don’t want us to get off on the wrong foot.”

“What the blazes are you on, Granger? Has your brain finally cracked? In case you hadn’t noticed, I’m under a term’s length of punishment from that demented tabby, and having to put up with you is the worst part of it.”

“I don’t know,” Hermione said, a sly note creeping into her voice. “I thought perhaps you were pleased to see me.”

His step faltered the tiniest fraction. Not enough to notice, except that it was Malfoy, whose swagger never failed, and that Hermione was watching closely out of the corner of her eye. “You thought wrong.” 

“Clearly.”

He retreated into glowering silence for the next few minutes, and Hermione congratulated herself. Making him miss a step had to count as a point, and he’d negated his insult with his use of the slur before. One to nothing.

Half an hour later, the score was 14-12, Malfoy’s favor. It would have been tied, even with him frequently losing points, except that Hermione had slipped twice, once for  _ prat  _ and once for  _ pompous _ . He was on her case harder tonight than usual, and she was beginning to regret agreeing to switch with Hannah.

“Are you going to clear your throat like that the whole evening?” he growled when they passed the painting of a hippopotamus. “You sound like a bullfrog.”

Hermione threw up her hands. “What’s put a kink in your broomstick tonight, Malfoy? Or were you hoping that badly for a chance to torture Hannah?”

“That whimpering little marshmallow?” he scoffed. 

“You clearly want to have a go at me, and I think I deserve to know why, if I have to put up with it. What exactly have I said or done to offend you?”

“You mean besides breathe?”

“Yes, exactly.” She folded her arms. “Go ahead. Just tell me what reason I’ve given you to insult me nonstop.”

“I don’t need another reason.”

“But do you have one?”

A chorus of voices echoed from a nearby staircase, including a few yelps of surprise as the stairs began to swing to another destination. 

“You don’t, do you?” Hermione said.

Malfoy glared at her, then kept walking without saying another word.

The last twenty minutes or so before curfew were always busy. It was easy for the two of them not to talk to each other. Younger students schemed to sneak around the castle, bookish students needed to be chased out of the library. Older students sometimes had to be pried apart from rather wet embraces in shadowy corners and pointed to their respective dormitories. Hermione inevitably blushed when she had to do this part. She tried to hide her discomfort from Malfoy, but no such luck.

“Hear that?” A distinctive smacking sound caught their attention. A throaty, feminine noise followed. Malfoy grinned. “Off you go, then, Granger.”

“You heard it first,” Hermione said, cursing the heat she already felt in her cheeks. “You go talk to them.”

“Oh no,” Malfoy said. “This calls for more delicacy than a--what was it?--snide, insufferable prat could possibly provide.” 

Hermione screwed up her face, cast a Lumos spell, and mumbled at the Ravenclaw couple. She wished the floor would open up under her and judging by their dagger-eyed expressions, they did, too.

Malfoy sniggered openly as she trudged back, her cheeks flaming.

“See anything you like, Granger?”

“Piss off, Malfoy.”

“Don’t be a killjoy. Roger Davies and Nanette Desford? Figures. They spend more time slurping on each other than their food at dinner. Did you happen to notice where his hands were? I’ve got a bet with Gemma on how far they’ll go in public.”

Completely red now, Hermione tried to keep her voice stiff and dignified. “My job is to recommend they find a private place to...spend time together, not ogle them.”

Malfoy shrugged. “Some people like when people watch. I half-expected you to be one of them. You’ve been spotted ‘spending time’ with Potter and Weasley in every nook of this castle.”

“We’re friends.”

He didn’t hear the warning note in her voice. “Do you take them one at a time, or do they both like to jump in together?”

Hermione half-dragged him into an empty classroom and shoved him against the wall. “Call me what you want, but don’t you dare talk about my friends. Just...just don’t.”  _ Shit _ _._ Weeks of fighting, weeks of studying and talking late into the night with Harry and Ron about Voldemort’s impending return, and now of all times the fight had drained out of her? 

Malfoy rubbed the back of his head. “Fine.”

_ What? _

“What?” Hermione snapped, more forcefully than she meant it to come out.

“I said fine! Just keep your hands off me.”

Hermione nodded. “All right then. Good.”

“So what are we supposed to talk about?” Malfoy complained as the crowds cleared.

“Why do you even want to talk to me at all?” Hermione grumbled. “You hate me, remember?”

“You think I shouldn’t,” he pointed out.

“Of course I think you shouldn’t.”

“Why not?”

“Act like you have a brain, Malfoy.”

“Muggles are deformed,” he said flatly. “Lack of magical ability stunted their moral and intellectual growth. Muggles don’t see or fear Dementors because they don’t have souls to worry about losing. They use barbaric practices like amputation, they divorce ten times more often than Magical couples. They’re violent and lazy and weak, and the ‘religious’ ones torture and murder any witches or wizards they get their hands on. They’re useless to the Magical community, and they force us into the fringes while they take the dragon’s share of the resources.”

Hermione thought. “That doesn’t make sense. They can’t possibly be all of those things.”

“Are you calling my father a liar?”

_ Yes . _ “What I’m saying,” Hermione said carefully, “is that it doesn’t make sense to hate Muggles because they’re weak and lazy, and also because they’re so dangerous and powerful that they’ve forced the Magical community into hiding. They’re either weak or strong. And Muggles are hardly useless to you. You use Muggle things all the time.”

“I do not. I would never touch that filth.”

“What do you think you eat?” Hermione said. “You think an oppressed Wizarding community has massive tracts of farmland, and food processing plants? There’s only three or four thousand of us in all of Britain. That’s not enough to sustain a labor force to produce everything we need. Where do you think we get teacups? Or construction materials for homes and buildings? Who do you think makes the parchment for your books, or the fabric for your clothes? Your healers and professors and Aurors, and even the cooks may be magical, but nearly everything you’ve ever touched was made by a Muggle. You’d die without them.”

“That’s all very tidy, coming from you,” Malfoy said. “There’s fewer of us because we’re cramped. The Magical world would be freer, if we weren’t hiding. There’d be more babies.” His voice didn’t have its usual cocky ring, although he tried to regain it. “Even you were quick enough to run out of your Muggle family the second you had a chance. Don’t tell me you didn’t get called a freak for having a gift.”

“My parents are proud of me,” Hermione said honestly. 

“Good for you,” Malfoy sniffed. “Go throw yourself a little party with the other Mudbloods and Half-breeds.”

“Where exactly is the line there, by the way?” Hermione said. “I know you look down on Muggle-borns and Half-bloods, but does Half-blood mean exactly half? With a population this small, even Purebloods are bound to have a Muggle somewhere in the family line, if you go back far enough. Do you keep track of all the students at Hogwarts who have a Muggle grandparent, or great-grandparent? Who do you think will still be with you, once you’ve weeded out everyone you’ve found a reason to hate? Or do you enjoy being alone that much?” 

Malfoy flinched. A flicker of movement down the hall caught his attention, and he charged forward, wand at the ready. A Lumos spell revealed a first-year student muttering an incantation at Professor Flitwick’s office door.

“What have we here,” Malfoy said. He leaned against the door casually and tipped his head to one side. “Up past bedtime, are we?”

“I--er--was looking for the bathroom?” the student, a boy with shaggy black hair named Bellamy Ungleswitch, said hopefully.

“Not bloody likely,” Malfoy said. He grabbed at the student’s wand. “Give me that. Priori incantatem!”

A thin, sickly blue light fizzled at the tip of the wand. Malfoy winced.

“Alahoramo? Merlin’s left nut, no wonder you’re trying to steal test answers.”

“I wasn’t!”

Malfoy cocked an eyebrow. “I don’t see an apple in your hand, so you’re not leaving a bribe.”

“It’s only because it’s impossible to understand a word he says,” Bellamy grumbled. “He’s doing the charms the whole time he’s teaching, isn’t he? How’m I supposed to listen to the words when there’s charms whizzing all over the classroom?”

“That’s a detention,” Malfoy drawled. “Two, actually. One for attempted cheating and one for breaking into a professor’s office, even if you’re using the kind of spell a halfwit Squib would think up. And ten points off your House, for breaking curfew.”

The boy looked at Hermione, eyes wide with indignation.

She gave him an apologetic smile. “It’s in the rulebook. You did admit to it, Bellamy. I’m sorry, but you’ll have to report to Professor McGonagall in the morning.” She reached a hand out to Malfoy. He looked at it for a moment in surprise, then pulled two detention slips from his pocket, scrawled his name on them, and handed them to her. She initialed them and muttered the alarm incantation to set the appointment. If Bellamy missed his meeting with McGonagall, the slips would flit around his head, just out of reach, alerting faculty and students alike that he was overdue for a disciplinary meeting.

“Now get back to the Tower, quickly,” she said. “No detours.”

Malfoy was quiet as they watched the first-year go.

“That was a Gryffindor,” he said finally.

“I know who my first-years are.”

“Why did you sign?”

Hermione swiped at a curl tickling her neck. “He was trying to break into a professor’s office. You didn’t suggest anything out of line. The rulebook is clear.”

He was quiet again for a minute. “You realize you’re the only prefect who’s read the rulebook. You’re a know-it-all even around other know-it-alls.”

“What’s your point?”

“The others won’t sign.”

Hermione frowned. “They have to. If it’s a legitimate breach of the rules.”

Draco rolled his eyes. “Yes, well, you have no idea the depths of philosophical interpretation some people have time to devote to school rules. Or they didn’t see something that happened right in front of them, if I saw it first.”

“I see.” Hermione could imagine all too easily how justified certain other Prefects might feel in rubbing Malfoy’s nose in for a change. “I’m not going to do that. Whatever history we may have, that shouldn’t stop us from being fair.”

“Are you waiting for a thank you?”

Hermione’s lips quirked into a smile despite herself. Of course he wouldn’t be able to admit she was being decent to him. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I could really go down a rabbit hole of how the Wizarding economy sustains itself. Like, how do Muggles who marry into the community contribute to the workforce? We know Gringotts converts Galleons to British pounds for students from Muggleborn families, but Hogwarts tuition wouldn't cover the needs for goods and services that a population of thousands would rely on. What long-term, top-secret trade deals are likely to exist between a sovereign Magical ministry and the British government? These and many, many more questions are...not likely ever to be answered in this fic, because I've got a love story to build, but they are still questions I puzzle over, and anyone who enjoys doing likewise is welcome to geek out with me in the comments.


	4. Butterflies

Draco double-checked the prefect rota and groaned. On with Granger again, officially tonight. Then a few nights off duty, and what would you know it, but he was scheduled to be with Corner, who would want to switch with whoever was paired with Clearwater (who he fancied), and that person just happened to be...Granger. 

Terrific.

Nothing he could do about it, either. He rolled his eyes remembering the hand-wringing display McGonagall had put on before conceding that Weasley simply couldn’t maintain the professionalism to spend three hours walking the halls with him. Asking for a second black-list was out of the question. If everyone stuck to the rota, he’d only need to see Granger once every two weeks or so. But McGonagall turned a blind eye to prefects making their own arrangements, and he was finding the frizzball waiting for him four nights out of five.

Draco couldn’t believe how stupid he’d been the other night, letting Granger know the others didn’t treat him fairly, not to mention allowing her to talk her nonsense about Magical people depending on Muggles. Especially since some of it had sounded worryingly plausible.

Granger was waiting at the usual spot, even though he’d arrived early himself. So much for having a few minutes to regroup before facing her. To his dismay, she smiled and gave a nod of greeting as he approached. Worse, seeing someone look pleased to see him, even if it was her, stirred a shameful sense of...calm, maybe. A sort of lightening of some of the stress he was under.

“Get that simpering look off your face,” he snapped. This was what happened when you encouraged her kind. He needed to regain the upper hand.

“Hi, Malfoy.” She didn’t acknowledge his insult, just fell into step with him. “I’ve been thinking about what we were talking about the other night--”

“We’re not friends, Granger.”

She narrowed her eyes quizzically. “Yes?”

“So shove it. I can’t hear myself think with you blabbering.”

Well, that worked about as well as he was learning to expect. If he bit his tongue and spent the first hour all but running through the castle looking for problems to solve like some asinine Gryffindor with a hero complex, he could just about escape her. Until the castle began to settle down, that was, removing the distractions, and she launched in as though they’d been chatting pleasantly for hours.

“I couldn’t stop thinking about what you said, about Muggle souls.”

“Bit of a shock to think Mummy and Daddy are subhuman scum?” He’d never gone for her parents before. He meant it as a deadly blow.

She  _ waved his words aside.  _ Literally waved her hand, like he was a fly. “Don’t be stupid, of course they have souls.  _ Think, _ Malfoy. You were on the cusp of something really brilliant, and you’re letting your prejudices make you lazy. Muggles don’t see or fear Dementors, but they do feel depressed in a Dementor’s presence. They just can’t perceive the Dementor itself. What if magical abilities are determined by a part of the brain not all people have? Like a vestigial tail, but far more useful, obviously. There’s barely been any research into the physiological differences between magical and non-magical people. It could even be something much subtler, like an additional hormone, or synaptic patterns that behave differently. God, if we could isolate it, find a medical path toward enabling magical ability? Although that’s years of research and experimentation away, if it’s even a feasible option. But Dementors don’t eat souls, they lobotomize people. They’re flying zombies. This whole religious attitude about blood keeps people from trying to understand the science.”

“That’s daft.”

“There are a few flaws, I’ll admit. If the Wizarding world really has definitively proven the existence of souls, you’d think someone ought to inform the Vatican, or I suppose any major world religion’s leaders…” Mercifully, she trailed off. She’d had another idea, it seemed. She was absently making a clicking sound with her tongue. Her eyes darted back and forth without seeing the passageways before her, as if she were reading an unseen text, or chasing thoughts flitting through her brain.

It didn’t take long for her to find her voice again. Draco tried to regain the authoritative sharpness in his tone that had quelled her briefly at the beginning, but Granger was on a hot streak and didn’t seem to notice his inflection. She’d been to the library, of course, and applied her nearly flawless memory to refer to the Hogwarts catalogue about every word he’d said.

“It’s interesting, don’t you think, that the Wizarding community has so many laws about Muggles and magic?” she said, passing the hippogriff statue. “Muggles are feeble and stunted, right? You said that. So then what harm would it do for a Muggle to touch a wand, or see a unicorn, or even see a spell performed?”

Draco recoiled. “That’s revolting.”

“Yes, that’s what I thought you’d say. It’s not a safety concern, it’s blood prejudice doublethink again.”

“What’s doublethink?”

“Oh, that’s from a classic work of Muggle literature,” Granger said. “1984. It depicted an imaginary future where a tyranny tries to control how people act and think. Almost like an Imperius curse, but mostly by frightening everyone into conforming. Doublethink meant holding two contradictory ideas in a person’s head at once, and believing both of them.”

“So typical Muggle violence, then,” Draco said. “And typical Muggle stupidity. Doublethink isn’t even a proper word.”

“It was written to be a kind of warning,” Granger said. “Readers are supposed to look down on the simplistic language. The government in the book created the language, Newspeak, to restrict freedom of thought. If people never learned the words to articulate certain concepts, like free will, or evil, it would be harder for anyone to rebel.”

“That would never work, though,” Draco said. “Removing a word doesn’t remove the thing itself. If you’re intelligent, you can still understand when you’re being fed something that doesn’t make sense. The whole premise of the book is absurd.”

“Maybe, but are you so sure someone could see clearly if what they’d been told was wrong, if they’d grown up hearing lies presented as truth all their lives? How do you know what to believe and what to question?”

Granger was gesturing while she talked, her eyes were bright and animated, and she was walking altogether too close to him. Close enough that her shoulder bumped against his, and one expressive hand almost brushed against his chest. He prodded her away from him. She squeaked, a feminine sound that was almost endearing, and then resumed her rapid chatter.

“I’ll bring it for you tomorrow. You can look it over for yourself.”

Draco was getting too caught up in the conversation if he was letting her invade his space like that. Far too familiar. 

It was hard to make her keep her distance, though. Goblin’s balls, but the witch could talk. She didn’t seem able to help herself. She danced between subjects, going from Magical healing techniques to literature (which she bemoaned was not a required subject taught at Hogwarts), to pointed questions at him. It was sort of fun. He’d probably hear her in his ears long after he finally shook her off, but at least she wasn’t babbling on about silly school events or making the kinds of hur-hur jokes Crabbe and Goyle cobbled together, back when he spent time with them. Granger moved quick. You had to be quick to keep up with her. 

She kept bumping into him, too. Something happened when she got caught up in making a point. Her personal space boundaries got all out of whack. Within twenty minutes, Draco was picking up on the cues. Granger started speaking faster, and a bit higher, the hands started moving, and in seconds he’d be grazed by a shoulder or arm or hip. Even when he nudged her away, she kept talking, and stayed close enough for him to smell her shampoo.

“I told you not to touch me,” he grumbled the fourth or so time. It wasn’t that it was so awful, but he couldn’t risk anyone wandering out and seeing them acting so...chummy. 

“Sorry,” Granger said, distracted. “Anyway, I thought of something I wanted to ask you--”

And she was off again. Draco shook his head. There really was no shutting her up, was there? Less than a minute later, he glanced to the side and saw she was beginning to drift his way again. To his surprise, he found himself trying to stifle a smile. 

When they reached the dungeons, Granger veered off to one side of the staircases to take what had become her usual spot to wait for him. They hadn’t spoken about the confrontation the first night. It was clear enough that a magical duel was more trouble than it was worth for both of them. She waited by the steps and he took a leisurely stroll through the dungeons himself. It was good, knowing that she knew her rightful place.

Except that Granger didn’t seem ashamed at all. Quite the opposite. He’d seen her look at him with a pitying grimace on other nights as they reached the stairs to the dungeons. When he returned, she’d offer him a smile that held something like compassion, or even sympathy. He had to be extra cold to her afterward, even if that meant sacrificing some of the more civil aspects of their conversation, so she wouldn’t think she was doing him some kind of favor by leaving him to run his own House quarters.

Draco finished rounds, taking an extra loop just to keep Granger waiting, and headed back. She wasn’t even looking for him. She had her wand out, completely transfixed on something she was doing. Draco sidestepped into the shadows, intrigued to figure out what had captured her attention.

She was making butterflies. Out of nothing, it seemed. Conjuring spells were some of the hardest skills students learned. Granger had three butterflies flitting over her head. As Draco watched, she furrowed her forehead, concentrated on a spot in front of her, and performed a series of small, decisive movements with her wand. A fourth butterfly appeared in the spot she was concentrating on and began to flap its wings. Draco whistled under his breath, impressed despite himself. Most seventh-year students wouldn’t be able to do this. Hell, many witches and wizards managed to live their entire lives without perfecting the technique required to Conjure this many living things out of thin air.

It wasn’t true life, of course. The insects would fly for a while, the exact length of time depending on Granger’s skill, but ultimately the magic would wear out. She was excellent, though, he had to give it to her. He leaned against the wall, watching.

He’d rarely had a chance to look at her like this. He saw Granger all the time, in class or at meals, and now several nights a week. Seeing her when she wasn’t bristling with anger at him, or falling all over those two mop-headed idiots, was different. This was a Granger in her own world, brown eyes at once dreaming and determined as she imagined her creatures into being. Her lips curved in a coaxing, satisfied smile. Even her mass of hair fell more gently when she wasn’t shoving at it all the time. 

Draco took out his own wand, a mixture of envy and irritation and that odd intrigue swirling within him. Before he’d thought through how it would look, he was frowning in concentration himself, trying to calculate wand-strokes and remember the fine details (six legs, segmented body, facets on the eyes, rolled proboscis). He braced his arm with his other hand to keep the movements steady, and then there was a tawny moth fluttering before him. It had two dark spots on its velvety wings. They were perhaps a similar shade to Granger’s eyes. If anyone were watching that closely.

He blew on the moth gently, sending it in her direction. 

It wasn’t meant to be a gift. He would have sworn to this. While he was creating the moth, he’d wanted to show Granger up, and show off his own skills. If that meant making something himself and offering it to her, did that automatically qualify it as a present? 

The moth flitted toward her, and she looked up at the movement. When she saw Draco coming toward her, she actually laughed out loud in surprise and delight, and reached out to let the moth land on her hand.

“It’s beautiful,” she said. She brought it closer to her face, the soft wings almost brushing her cheeks. “Look at the detail. You’ve caught the little hairs on the antennae exactly. Look--it’s grooming. Draco, this is really lovely.”

He shifted, uncomfortable with the lavish praise. “Thanks.” 

The limits of his mental hold on the spell broke, and the moth dissolved into a shimmering cloud of golden sparks, dusting Granger’s nose. She squeaked in surprise, then giggled as the effervescent magic tickled her skin. She got up to follow him back toward the main halls, nudged him, then impulsively looped an arm through his and hugged it briefly to her side.

“Thank you,” she said.

“Don’t mention it,” he said drily.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Canon HP talks A LOT about the power of the soul/love when it comes to magic! Which is so fascinating, because really even with ghosts as paranormal manifestations, there seems to be a lot of questioning about what really happens after death? But if they can use souls consistently in magic, there's a weird disconnect between the known and unknown.
> 
> In any case, unlike the broader concerns of Magical/Muggle economic trade, souls *are* something I will revisit intermittently, so if you've ever scrolled AO3 hoping for Dramione content with sporadic contemplation of the metaphysical as applies to magic, you are in the right place! I'm sure this comes as an enormous breath of relief to you all (/s).


	5. Prefect Pressure

The next three weeks passed in a numbing stack of pages. Even Hermione, who usually enjoyed academics, found herself pinching the bridge of her nose in the evenings to chase off text-induced headaches. Sixth year was no cakewalk. It was still studying magic, at least--the thrill of being raised in a Muggle home only to find she could do real magic hadn’t ever fully worn off--but this was no flick-of-the-wand stuff. 

Transfiguration required perfect concentration, timing, and impeccably precise wand movements. History of Magic was a bad joke. Professor Binns still judged exams based on rote memorization. He wouldn’t make even a vague attempt to bridge Wizarding’s past with its present, and he refused to teach any event he found personally distasteful, so Hermione was cramming in as much extra reading as she could, looking for ways to fill in the gaps and maybe get a sense of how the Wizarding community had responded during previous times of threat. Of war. 

Potions was a whole issue in and of itself. Hermione thought it was going to be such a relief not to be bullied by Snape. Slughorn didn’t target her, but his teaching style proved harder to adapt to than she’d thought. Hermione was excellent at processing new concepts, memorizing information she needed, and being precise with her spellwork. She didn’t understand why she was struggling so much, except that these advanced potions were so delicate. They took finesse that Hermione didn’t seem able to harness, whatever she tried. Slughorn offered vague instructions, and his feedback ran along the lines of, “Hmm, yes, that one can be a bit finicky. Takes a gentle hand, my dear.” Or, later, “Well, this won’t do. It’s barely mixed at all. You can’t be afraid of the cauldron, my girl!” 

Like everyone else who wanted a chance at decent marks, Hermione was spending every minute she could spare hunched over her books and cauldron. She drilled herself constantly, spending hours in the Potions lab to practice identifying ingredients by scent. She might not have the intuitive knack some other students she could mention seemed to possess, knowing when to add an extra dropper-full of this or leaf of that, but by Godric, she’d memorize every ingredient in the pantry if that’s what it took.

Even prefect duties faded to the background. A few spot checks of the library, House commons, and other typical study spots, and she could spend much of the evening studying in the halls. Malfoy sulked when she didn’t talk to him, but even if their conversations had been fun from time to time, there was nothing to be done. She had to concentrate.

Harry and Ron provided much-needed support. She’d always admired their ability to keep a well-rounded schedule of activities, even if she didn’t envy their grades.

Ron caught up with her on the way to dinner. He ducked his head in both directions before muttering, “You all right, Hermione? We’ve barely seen you since Quidditch trials.”

“Yes, I’m fine.”

He shuffled a foot. “I was beginning to think you were avoiding me.”

“I’ve just been so busy,” Hermione said. “With classes, and hall monitoring nights. You know.”

“Right, of course.” Ron sounded unsure. “Although we’re both prefects, you know. Harry and I were saying it looks you’re taking on a lot more than the rest of us.”

“Everyone wants to switch now,” Hermione said. “I’m taking an extra shift almost every week.”

“Yeah, I’ve noticed.”

Hermione felt uncomfortable. She had the creeping feeling Ron was trying to catch her into admitting something, but she didn’t know what he meant. She tried to cover her unease by shoving at him playfully with her shoulder, the way she was used to nudging the boys when they were joking around. The differences ticked off in her brain before she could fully register what was happening. 

Ron was slightly shorter than Malfoy, but broader and more muscular. 

Malfoy held himself straighter, and walked more gracefully.

Ron didn’t smell the same. He should smell like the sharp tang of hair products and hints of cedar and vetiver. 

Malfoy would have poked her just at the dip of her waist, in the soft spot where it partly tickled and partly hurt. She made a noise when he did it, something between a giggle and a yelp, so he kept doing it after the first time. The spot tingled in anticipation, but no prod came. Ron checked her shoulder back instead, knocking her almost off-balance. 

“You don’t need to put yourself through all that effort,” he was saying. “Lousy, stuck-up slimeball. It’s not like the rest of the prefects don’t know the things he’s said to you. They should deal with Malfoy themselves instead of sticking him with you every night.”

Hermione’s ears felt warm. She was glad she was wearing her hair down. “It’s really not a big deal. I don’t mind it.”

“If you say so,” Ron said. He cleared his throat. “You’d tell me or Harry, wouldn’t you? If you were avoiding us?”

Hermione’s heart was beating faster, which was weird, and stupid, and annoying. “Why would I avoid you, Ron?” There was a secret bubble in her chest. She didn’t know whether or not she wanted to hear what he would say next.

“You know.” A shy grin grew over his face. “Lavender’s been around to chat a few evenings. Quite a few, really. Thought maybe you were jealous.”

“Oh,” Hermione said, disappointed. The bubbling feeling dissipated. She barely knew who Lavender was. “No. I didn’t even realize you and she were together.”

“We’re not,” Ron said quickly. “She’s been coming to the Quidditch games, though. You coming this weekend?”

“I’ll try.”

They caught up with Harry, who had a long list of things to talk about. He was so wrapped up in that blasted Potions book. He wanted to try spells that Hermione had never heard of, things written by a wizard none of them knew or could trust. Hermione didn’t need more reminders of Potions, or Slughorn, than she already had. She was still trying to forget some of the more awkward moments of Slughorn’s supper party. 

“I wish Dumbledore would tell me what I’m meant to do,” Harry complained. “I’m trying to let Slughorn collect me, but I don’t know why.”

“Dumbledore can be batty,” Ron said. 

“Do you think it has to do with my mother? Slughorn had a picture with her, at his house. He knew my mother, and he knew Voldemort. Do you think he tried to help her, once he knew Voldemort was after them?”

“I dunno,” Ron said. “I don’t exactly know the bloke. You and Hermione are the ones stuffing your faces at his parties.”

“You seem to do well enough for yourself,” Hermione said with a pointed look at his loaded plate.

Ron gave her a wounded look. “I’m Keeper. I need to keep my strength up. You work up an appetite, whacking that Quaffle away so many times.”

“That reminds me, we’re playing Slytherin this weekend, and we really need to get some extra practice in. They’ve got a new Seeker now that Malfoy’s quit, which is bad news for us. Carrow’s actually quite good.” 

“You’re trying for a Snitch Snatch?” Ron said. 

“I think it’s an option we need to consider.”

Hermione let her attention drift. She found herself glancing more than once across the Great Hall, at the boy with ice-blond hair sitting almost motionless, eating mechanically, with no evidence of enjoyment. Draco looked miserable, from what she could make out of his expression at this distance. He wasn’t talking to anyone. She thought for a moment he might be looking in her direction, but she couldn’t be sure.

Harry spotted her staring and glared across the hall at the Slytherin table.

“Malfoy,” he spat. “I’m telling you, Hermione, he’s the reason Katie nearly got killed. He’s up to something.”

“Bloody git. That sneaky little bastard is always up to something. I’m shocked Hermione hasn’t hexed him seven ways to Sunday by now, having to look at that smug face all the time.” Ron pushed his plate back. “We should go. McGonagall tore me a new one for missing the last meeting.”

“Hermione,” Harry said. “Do you have time to swing by the library with me, before you go? I wanted your help finding something.”

Hermione gave him a quizzical frown, but followed him.

“You know there are librarians, don’t you, Harry?”

“Yes, of course. I’m not that thick. I wanted a little privacy.” He looked back over his shoulder. “I noticed you and Ron came in together.”

Hermione raised her eyebrows. “So?”

Harry apparently thought he was giving her a knowing grin. “Ron mentioned over the summer that you two might be getting, well, closer. Everyone says there’s at least one prefect romance every year, and I assumed if you were spending a lot of time with Ron. Anyway. I wanted to ask if I should try and make myself scarce from time to time?”

Hermione wrinkled her nose. “No, there’s no need.”

“Are you sure? I don’t want to make things weird.”

“You’re only making things weird now!” Hermione shook her head. “Don’t worry about Ron and me. We’re the same as it’s always been.” 

“Fair enough,” Harry said. “Has Malfoy been acting strange?”

“What?”

“Ron said the other prefects were fobbing him off on you all the time. I thought maybe you’d have noticed anything out of the ordinary.”

“No,” Hermione said, a little flustered. “Nothing important.” She thought of a brown moth, soft and light on her fingers. Harry wouldn’t be interested in that.

“All right. Well, Dumbledore wanted to meet with me. Maybe I can get some bloody answers this time.”

Hermione smiled sympathetically. “Good luck.”

Draco did look different, Hermione thought at the prefects’ meeting. Different in more ways than one. He was more subdued. He even moved the teapot her direction when she came up beside him to pour a cup before the meeting began. Those were good things, weren’t they? Their arguments had shifted over the weeks they’d spent on duty together. They didn’t fall so quickly into sniping at each other, and it had been awhile since she’d heard  _ Mudblood  _ out of his mouth. They just...talked. It got heated sometimes, for sure, but it felt more like a debate than a fight. When Hermione remembered to keep score of insults, it took longer to reach twenty. Some nights neither one got there at all. 

Not that they’d had much time for arguments lately. For the last week or so, Hermione guessed, she’d greeted him but spent much of the time reading.

He didn’t look well. His face was drawn, eyes hooded and hollow with lack of sleep. He settled on the Slytherins’ usual couch, on the corner nearest Hermione, and propped his cheek in his hand again.

Ron dropped himself into the couch beside Hermione and spread his arms across the back. He jutted his chin at Malfoy, who curled his lip in distaste but otherwise didn’t move.

Throughout the meeting, Ron was determined to keep Hermione under close guard. He crossed one leg over the other so that one foot dangled in the air by Hermione’s knee, caging her into her corner of the couch. Hermione had to pat his ankle to make him give her room to lean forward and get her tea off the low table. When she did, she caught a hint of vetiver.

“It would be helpful to have a count of the prefects who expect to remain at Hogwarts over the winter holiday,” McGonagall said.

Hermione raised her hand, as did Hannah. To her surprise, so did Draco. She gave him a sharp look. Certainly the Malfoys would normally have some big holiday to-do. Draco still looked glum and tired. None of the other prefects raised their hands.

“Very well,” McGonagall said. “Once I have a better sense of how many students to expect, I’ll let you know what the holiday schedule will look like. You deserve a chance to rest and enjoy yourselves, so your responsibilities will be lighter between terms. Now, I wanted to discuss the Halloween Fest. Mr. MacMillan and Miss Abbott, you were in charge of decorations?”

After the meeting concluded, Hermione caught up with Draco without bothering to confirm it on the rota. It seemed like everyone had picked a favorite partner, and they were the only two who were stuck with each other. She wondered if anything would be different between her and Ron if someone else had taken on Malfoy. She’d felt that strange fluttering, bubbling sort of sensation when they were walking toward the Great Hall. Or, she thought she had. Maybe she was just feeling the residual emotions from having thought for a long time that they’d end up together. Telling Harry that she and Ron were just friends hadn’t felt like lying.

Draco was walking close to her. He brushed against her arm, and all the little hairs on her arm prickled at his touch. She pulled away. Her skin felt hypersensitive, almost imprinted with a feeling of his fingertips tracing down the back of her wrist, toward her hand. It was confusing. Hermione tugged her sleeves down and shifted her book bag to her other shoulder, so it hung between them.

As soon as Hermione and Draco made sure the library and other common study areas were in order, they returned to the staircase between the third and fourth floors. Hermione unslung her bag from her shoulder and took out a thick book. Draco’s voice cut in before she could skim the first paragraph.

“I think it’s about time I set the record straight on some of your fanciful ideas about Muggles.”

“Not right now, Draco.”

“If we eat Muggle-grown food, that’s really all the more proof that their natural place is serving Wizarding people--”

“I said I’m not in the mood,” Hermione said. “I’ve got three papers and two exams next week. I’m going to study.”

Draco scowled. “You’re always studying lately.”

“I always have work. Don’t you have assignments to do?”

“You have no idea,” he muttered darkly. “At the beginning of term, I couldn’t shut you up if I tried. What, has the mighty Mudblood finally realized she can’t keep up anymore?”

“I’ve got more pressing things to do than try to crack through your thick skull. You think some people have the wrong blood. I get it. That doesn’t mean I need to talk to you about it endlessly.” Hermione opened her book.

“Didn’t peg you for the kind of girl who’d grease Weasley’s wand for him.”

“Excuse me?”

A look of triumph flashed over his face. “I would have thought you’d go for Potter, personally. Weasley looks like an orangutan. I don’t know how you’d stand having him pawing you, but you seemed cozy enough.”

“Shut it. I’m trying to read.”

“The Half-breeds around Hogwarts seem to think your family has some money,” Draco continued. “Will your parents be embarrassed to have a pauper son-in-law, or are they so happy you’ve got a magical cock to plug you up that they don’t care that you’ll be living in squalor?”

“That’s it,” Hermione snapped. She stood up and snatched her things. “I don’t know what the hell your problem is. I’ve tried to be reasonable, and patient, and Godric knows I’ve let you slide too many times to count. I’m done, Malfoy. Anytime I think for a second that you’re going to be decent, you have to go and remind me what a wretched, vile, spiteful person you really are.” 

Hermione stormed to Professor McGonagall’s office and rapped on the door. She opened it as soon as she heard the elder witch’s voice and took a seat without being asked.

“Miss Granger, what’s the matter?”

“I need you to take me off duty with Malfoy,” Hermione said, trying to keep her voice steady. “I can’t take it anymore. I thought I was getting through to him on some points, but it’s just too much. I need a break.”

“Slow down, Miss Granger.” McGonagall pulled out a pad of parchment covered in her elegant handwriting. “I must confess, this is a rather unusual situation.”

“Ron said you let him be off rotation with Malfoy.”

“I don’t mean your request, exactly. I’d expected you to come to me much sooner, in fact. I’m not unaware of the nature of the animosity between you and Mr. Malfoy, and I may not intervene when prefects rearrange my rota, but I’m not as blind as you think. I know you’ve spent more than your share of time with him. I am, I’ll admit, somewhat surprised to find you here now.”

Hermione narrowed her eyes. “I don’t understand.”

“I’ve received various reports about Mr. Malfoy lately that I would have been disinclined to believe, had they not come from so many students,” McGonagall said calmly. “It would appear he’s taken it upon himself to keep his fellow Slytherins from ganging up on Muggle-born students, particularly the first- and second-years. He gave Marcus Flint detention for it. He’s conducted himself more respectfully around other prefects than I was concerned he might, as well. I’d meant to commend you for what I assumed was your influence on him.”

Hermione folded her hands in her lap, unsure of what to say. “He’s not like that with me,” she said finally.

McGonagall pursed her lips. “I see. Maybe a bit of breathing room will do you some good. I can ask Miss Clearwater and Mr. MacMillan to take a few extra nights. Why don’t you take two weeks off and focus on your studies, and maybe spend a bit more time with Mr. Potter and Mr. Weasley?”

Hermione breathed a sigh of relief. “Thanks, Professor.” 

She’d gotten what she wanted, Hermione thought as she headed back to the Gryffindor Tower. She’d held her own against Malfoy long enough. Whatever little flickers of understanding she thought she’d felt between them were wrong, but she wouldn’t have to deal with him anymore. Two weeks off to catch up and avoid his venom. So why didn’t she feel happier about it?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For sharp-eyed readers: This time, I actually did know that Marcus Flint was ahead of the Golden Trio/Draco's year, and should have graduated. I don't think of him as a particularly good student, and in this version of storytelling, we shall assume he failed his exams and had to repeat seventh year.
> 
> This is the last chapter until Monday, so have a lovely weekend!


	6. The Cabinet

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Body horror/mutilation. If you're sensitive to violence, you can skip this chapter without missing major plot points.

It wasn’t working. None of it was working. Draco inched his hand into the Vanishing Cabinet and hissed as a patch of skin tore away. He’d opened the Cabinet’s back panel and realigned countless gears, hoping to reset it. No luck. The engraved spells and wards were worn out of use, sometimes not even legible except for a word or two, which sent him poring for hours through spellcasting omnibuses. He was working as fast as he could, and it was still agonizingly slow. The inner workings of the Vanishing Cabinet were completely scrambled. Little patches of the interior space connected instantly to the interior of Borgin & Burkes, while others were where they seemed to be. The problem was that air was invisible. There was no way to know whether an inch of space you looked at belonged here or miles away, until you brushed against a boundary and ripped a scrap of flesh clean off.

He hadn’t even started working on the second layer of gears. This was the first night he’d even gotten close to prying off the inner panel to get a look at what he was dealing with. He’d started the semester hoping that some of the mechanisms deep inside the Cabinet would still be in decent working order. Steaming pile of goblin dung that turned out to be. What path had he traced through the air with his hand?

Draco’s finger flamed into a streak of pain that shot through his hand, pulsing with the jolt of his heartbeat. He yelped, and fought the urge to yank his hand back. Trembling with pain, he withdrew his hand centimeters at a time. The fingernail was torn off, leaving a sticky mess at the nail bed. The cut was deep. There was something yellowish in the meat at the end of his finger. Tendon? Draco swallowed hard, fighting the urge to vomit. He was rubbish at healing spells. He’d have to go the the Infirmary later, tell them he shut his hand in a door or something. Again.

First, he had to make sure he wouldn’t make the same mistake again. He marked the spot where he’d hurt his finger on a piece of parchment, a map of the flaws in the Vanishing space. It was dotted like a moonless night sky. 

He consulted the map and tried a different angle, earned himself a gash in the webbing between his thumb and first finger. Another, and caught a knuckle. Keeping the discipline to keep from jerking his hand out each time was almost worse than the razor pain of each slice. Draco wanted to suck the cut like a hurt kid. He wanted someone to tell him he’d done enough, he didn’t have to put his hand back in there. Even someone to stand over him and look menacing and force him to do it would be better, in a way, than this. Crouching before the Cabinet, alone, working up the nerve to put himself through another round of pain, over and over again, ate away at his sanity.

Draco gave himself a break, if he could call it that, by checking the panel of mechanics he could reach again. Some of the tiniest gears were as small as the pupil of an eye, engraved in fine detail with incantations. He’d tried to keep his records flawless, but no, there were three here, and he’d marked two. He swore. Stupid, to use his dominant hand to reach in the Cabinet. The exquisite spellwork to re-engrave a gear this small was difficult enough even without him injured. 

It took the next hour of magnifying his view, transcribing the incantation (or what was left of it), consulting his notes, and redoing his best guess on what the proper spell ought to be. Then a test run, reciting the incantation to send items between Cabinets and watching the visible gears closely, looking for pockets of suspicious stillness and listening for any gnashing of pieces not fitting right or poorly cast spells clashing. Draco thought it looked better. He hoped it did. It sounded like the remaining faults were inside. 

Fixing a gear or slot usually got rid of a flaw spot. There was a chance, albeit a slim one, that this tiny gear was responsible for one of the patches that had torn his hand. He needed the inside panel off, and it had to be tonight. His attempt to complete his task using Katie had failed miserably. At least she was okay, or would be, eventually. Lingering around the infirmary, listening in on conversations had reassured him of this. He hadn’t wanted for her to get hurt. He thought he’d cast the spell properly, had control. Another failure. If he had nothing to report to the Death Eaters soon, they’d take it out on someone. Possibly his mother.

Draco huddled in front of the Cabinet again, trying not to whimper. He’d been at this for almost five hours, after classes ended. He’d skipped dinner. He was sore and sweaty, and his stinging hand was slick with blood. The space inside taunted him, a gaping mouth ready to devour him scrap by scrap. He gritted his teeth.

He knew to avoid a big patch at the front of the Cabinet. He’d tested its size using an apple after the edge bit his hand. He’d been lucky. One wrong move and he could have lost his hand, maybe bled out in this musty hidden room. Behind the first few inches, he didn’t know where most flaws were. But they found him. Angry nicks on his fingers, glancing slashes against the back of his hand. His thumbnail, gone. That got a sharp sob of agony out of him, but he gripped the edge of the Cabinet with his other hand and forced himself to keep steady. He was less than two inches away from the latch he needed. The image of his thumbnail dropping, wet, onto the Cabinet floor in Borgin & Burkes came to mind. 

Draco wanted, badly, to just grab the latch and get it over with, but he couldn’t. Had to keep creeping, bracing himself for more flares of pain. One more cut, a neat scroll of skin curling back from his middle cuticle, and his finger smeared blood on the latch. He flipped it. 

The back inside panel toppled out, knocking his hand. A wet sting against the pad of his palm. Draco ducked his head instinctively as the wood came toward him, then focused on his hand again. He’d have to withdraw it back through the same space that had shredded it already. He folded his fingers under as best as he could and pulled his hand back as slowly as he could force himself to do. Once it lay safe in his lap, he had to use his other hand to coax it open so he could assess the damage. 

Lacerations on the palm and back of the hand. Two nails gone, one split. Two knuckles shaved to the bone. Thumb web torn. The base of the thumb, palm side, had a slice cut off as neatly as carving a roast chicken breast for Sunday dinner. He could make out the grain of the muscle. He was bleeding profusely, leaving dark wet stains on his robe. His mangled hand burned on the surface level and throbbed underneath, nerves jangling against each pump of blood through his veins.

Looking at the fallen panel was the final straw. It was riddled with holes where the Vanishing space had eaten into it, turning a solid panel into a torn sieve made of old wood. The Cabinet was no passage. It was a death trap, whether he ever stepped inside or not. Draco’s breath hitched. He cradled his hand in his lap and sobbed over it, his panicked gulps echoing against the stone walls.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to my incredible beta readers for advising a warning! The Vanishing Cabinet took Draco a year to fix in canon. I wondered if this might be why...


	7. The Greenhouse

Ten days and a dizzying number of class assignments later, Hermione still couldn’t shake a weird sense of melancholy. Fighting with both Harry and Ron over the Felix Felicis potion for the Quidditch match hadn’t helped matters, nor had Ron’s budding new relationship with Lavender Brown. Every time Lavender said, “Won-Won,” Hermione could swear she felt a few brain cells die. Meanwhile, Harry was mooning over Ginny and grousing about Snape.

Sod it, she missed Malfoy. She was allowed to think that privately, at least, even if there was no way she could say it out loud to her friends. 

He was like glass, hard and sharp and clear. Hermione liked being around her boys, but Harry and Ron were different. They joked and talked over each other, or talked with their mouths full. They took forever to understand anything. 

Draco was cocky and arrogant and generally a little prick at the best of times, but she liked the way he focused on her when she talked, listening keenly for any weak point in her arguments. He borrowed her books and read them in a day, and came back raring to poke holes in her interpretation. He rolled his eyes at what she said, but often enough he mentioned something she hadn’t fully considered. Nothing she couldn’t refute, given a chance to think, but that was it, wasn’t it? Most people didn’t make her think. 

And it wasn’t like he was hard to look at. Again, not that she could admit it to Harry or Ron, or to any of the Gryffindor girls who swooned just to think they were in the same house as Harry. But if Malfoy sometimes used too much product in his hair, Harry barely seemed to wash his. Hermione suspected he didn’t own a comb at all. Ron wasn’t much better. Malfoy was crisp and poised and elegant. The swagger was annoying, but he had style. Not that style was enough, but for goodness’ sake, she was allowed to miss something without having to justify every guilty emotion against some internal jury. It was just disappointing, was all. There had been moments where it seemed like they could almost get along, if he could stop being a giant asshole all the time.

Hermione was out by the Herbology greenhouses tending her row of Night-Blooming Mugwort when footfalls close behind her made her jump. Malfoy’s face had more color in it than usual, probably from the walk in the cold.

“I've been looking for you everywhere,” he said.

“You found me.”

“You’re still mad at me?”

“You expected different?”

Draco took a step forward and put his hands on the table next to hers. “Are you going to let me talk to you, or has looking for you for the last two hours been a waste of time?”

Hermione sighed. “Make it quick.”

“McGonagall told me yesterday that it's looking like I'll be off provision next term.”

“Good for you.”

“I suppose you know why.” 

“I hear you've been quite the champion of lowly Mudbloods lately,” Hermione said. Draco lowered his gaze, but Hermione wasn't satisfied yet. “I'll be sure to draft up a letter of gratitude to our benevolent Pureblood savior.”

“I don't want you to do that.”

“Then what do you want? I'm busy.”

“Listen, Granger, that night. I was trying to get a rise out of you.”

“Well, you did.” Hermione kept her voice cool. She snuck a glance at Malfoy's face, though, in case she'd see something different from what she'd expected.

“I didn't think you'd take it so hard. After everything I've said before, I didn't think anything I said could really get to you.” He hesitated. “I wouldn't have said that, about you and Weasley, if I knew it'd upset you so much. I was trying to get you to talk to me. That's it.”

“He and I aren't together.”

“I know. You made that clear.”

“I wanted us to be, for a while. A good bit of time. And even if I don't anymore, that still doesn't give you the right to say anything to me about my private feelings. Especially if you're going to act like I'm less than capable of human thought or emotions.”

Draco mumbled something.

“What was that?”

He flushed. “I don't think that, okay? I'm not a bloody idiot, Granger. I know you can think, and you've made it obvious that I hurt your feelings. I spent half the afternoon looking for you.”

Hermione rolled her eyes. “Ten days later.”

“I thought you'd come back. Then I thought you needed an extra day or two to cool off. I'm telling you, I didn't realize this was going to be the last straw. Look, I came to say I was sorry, but if you don't want to listen, I've got plenty of other things I can do.”

“You're sorry?” Hermione said, tone shrilling up at the end. “You're sorry!?”

Draco frowned. “That's what you wanted me to say, isn't it?” 

Hermione took a step forward, crackling with rage. Draco took a step back involuntarily. She kept coming toward him, backing him up toward the far wall of the greenhouse. “You absolute idiot, you call me every insult in the book, and now you're  _ sorry _ _?_ You're suddenly nice to every Muggle-born student in this place except for me, and you track me down to tell me you're bloody SORRY?”

Any trace of arrogance was gone from Draco’s face. He looked bewildered, mostly. He looked nervous, but his mouth twisted like he was fighting an incredulous laugh. “Yes, I’m sorry! I’ll lay off Weasel if you want, I don’t care. What else do you want from me?”

“I'll make you sorry, you prick.” Hermione lunged at him. Both hands grabbed fistfuls of his shirt. She heard the clunk as the back of his head hit the thick glass wall. His heart was beating fast; she could feel it pounding against her hands on his chest. The smell of his hair and clothes mixed in with the damp, green smell of plants uncurling their leaves in the warm air. She had every intention of throttling him. 

Instead, on wild impulse, she surged up on her tiptoes and pressed her lips hard against his.

It was weird, for a second. It wasn’t a particularly nice kiss. She was kissing him more to gross him out or make him push her away, so she was mashing her lips hard enough against him that she could feel the firmness of his teeth under the skin.

Then it got significantly weirder, because it seemed to click for him what was happening, and suddenly he was kissing her back. She almost broke the kiss in shock, but he had her by the lower lip. There was a moment of warmth that might have been his tongue, and she relaxed the pressure of her lips so there was room for them to breathe, and when he did breathe she could taste him. He switched to her top lip and sucked it gently. His bottom lip moved between hers. Hermione bit it, but not hard, and Draco made a little pleased growl in the back of his throat.

His fingers found the sensitive spots at her waist, but instead of pinching or poking, his hands glided over the curve, gentle enough to tickle but firm enough to keep her from twitching. Little tingling threads branched out from the places he touched, illuminating a path Hermione suddenly ached for his hands to follow. And they did, his palms sliding around her waist and up her back, fingers tracing the outlines of her shoulder blades. 

One of Draco’s hands moved up to the back of her neck and buried deep in her hair. His kiss deepened for a moment. Then his hold on her hair tightened to the point of being painful, and he pulled her face back, away from his.

They stared at each other for a moment, eyes wide. Hermione fought the impulse to moisten her lips with her tongue, see if she could catch a lingering taste.

“I need to finish weeding my plants,” she blurted.

Draco nodded, shaken. He turned and collected his things without looking at her or saying a word. Hermione was too stunned to pretend not to see him in return. She watched him as he walked out, not bothering to try to disguise her staring. Draco didn’t look back. His back was stiff and straight, but his hands were shaky. Through a pane of the greenhouse glass, she saw him raise one arm to touch his mouth.


	8. A Well-Made Mistake

It was a mistake. Draco kept telling himself this, every time his mind returned to the warmth of Granger’s skin, the eager touch of her lips on his. It was a mistake. Every part of his association with that wretched witch. Every word, every step he’d walked beside her, every second he’d spent letting her words twist through his mind before he fell asleep in the dungeons. 

What the hell had he been thinking?

It was a small mercy, at least, that she hadn’t been in the castle. No one had been anywhere near the greenhouse. No one had seen them, and Granger wouldn’t tell anyone.

That stung, as much as it was also a relief. Enough of a shock to his pride that he could get caught at a moment so weak that he’d kiss someone like her. Knowing that someone he’d been raised to see as a filthy imposter would be ashamed to kiss him, too--that humiliation lingered sour in his throat.

Mistakes. He was making too many, too fast. The old bloodstains in the Cabinet at Borgin & Burkes would speak to his efforts to complete his task, but Dumbledore was hale and hearty in  _ The Daily Prophet _ every week. Long as he’d waited already, the Dark Lord wasn’t known for his patience. How stupid could he have been, letting himself relax around some bushy-haired, bossy witch who never shut her trap? 

So it had felt good to see her, to know that he’d have three hours of intellectually interesting arguments, and her closeness, which was clumsy but not unpleasant. It was reasonable to expect that he’d prefer some social stimulation, even from her, over hours of being ignored by the other prefects who could stand to be around him.

Kissing crossed a line. He couldn’t let it happen again.

He wouldn’t allow himself to be around her anymore. That was the simplest solution. Not the easiest, though. The other prefects were used to coordinating their schedules so they had to be with him as little as possible. They weren’t exactly overflowing with goodwill to switch rounds in his favor.

Draco managed to intimidate Hannah Abbott into switching with him instead of Corner so he could be with Clearwater one night. Then he was scheduled with Corner, and there wouldn’t be any good in trying to convince him not to trade with Granger so he could be with Clearwater. So he had to track down MacMillan, who was willing enough to let Draco swap to be with Gemma so that MacMillan would be asked to trade with the Ravenclaws. It worked, but it was costing too much time and energy understanding who wanted to be with who and finding the right prefect to ask for a switch. Imagining that the others had gone through these efforts to avoid him didn’t feel great, either. 

He went through the motions at Potions class in a stupor. When Slughorn finally nodded vaguely and told them they could go, he dragged his things together and rubbed his eyes. The inside of the Vanishing Cabinet didn’t seem as badly damaged as the outer layer of workings, but he had the flaw patches to resolve, and he hadn’t even started the series of tests needed to make sure the Cabinets could send objects between locations intact.

“Malfoy!” The strident, familiar voice cut through the commotion of students rushing out of afternoon classes.

Draco turned and had to scramble to catch a book Granger thrust at his chest.

“Here’s your book back,” she said, and swept off before he could finish a sentence.

“You didn’t borrow--”

She was already threading her way through the crowd of students. He’d have to chase her to give her the bloody book back, and she knew he wouldn’t.

A ripped piece of parchment tickled his finger. Draco pulled it from between the pages to read her neat, firm handwriting.

“Astronomy Tower. Tomorrow, 9:30 pm.”

Draco debated the rest of that day and the next whether to go to the meeting spot. He couldn’t imagine what she had to say to him that would make any difference. He had rules to follow, and a plan to keep from making the same mistakes again. Going to see her, alone, couldn’t lead to anything good. It didn’t make sense for him to go.

His mind kept coming back to the kiss. That hadn’t made sense, either, but it had happened. She never seemed to react quite the way he expected. It wasn’t wise, when it came to Granger, to pretend you knew what she would or wouldn’t do. Maybe it would be better to go, just so he could deal with her before this situation turned into a bigger problem.

As soon as he stepped onto the Astronomy Tower and saw her, Draco knew this was another mistake. She’d traded her standard black robe for a turquoise dressing gown over soft pajamas and slippers. Her hair was pulled into a low ponytail, and the wind had loosened a few tendrils, sending them curling playfully over her cheeks. She was sipping something out of a thermos that left foam on her upper lip. Her tongue flicked at it, and then she saw him and dabbed her mouth with the back of her hand.

“You came,” she said, smiling.

Draco pulled his coat tighter around him. “It’s bloody freezing out here.”

“I know. But it’s quiet. Here.” She handed him a second thermos. “I made cocoa. The marshmallows have melted, but I think that’s when they’re best, anyway. Do you want to sit down for a minute?”

“We don’t have anything to talk about.”

She snorted into her cocoa. “Let’s start with the fact that you’ve been avoiding me.”

Draco rolled his eyes. “I was trying to.” He felt awkward standing, when she had her feet tucked up on a bench. He perched at the far end of the bench, careful to leave space between them. “You avoided me first.”

“I was mad at you. Are you mad at me?”

Draco held the thermos between his hands so it could warm his fingers. “No.”

“Really?” She let out a breath. “I have to say, I’m relieved. I...wondered if you would be.”

He glowered at her. “I’m angry with myself, Granger. What you do is your own concern.”

“It seemed like you were concerning yourself with me a few days ago.” 

““Whatever you think happened, forget it,” Draco snapped. “You are nothing. Lower than nothing.” 

“See, why do you have to do this?” She waved her arm at the night sky, and the dim outline of the Forbidden Forest. “Who do you think you’re talking to? If nothing I say or do is your concern, why bother coming out here? You’re not fooling me, Malfoy. If I’m nothing to you, then there was no reason for you to go to the trouble of finding me, and apologizing. Or coming to meet me tonight, for that matter. So why did you do it, then?”

“Why does it matter?”

She leaned forward, brown eyes searching his. “Do you hate me?”

He shrugged. “That doesn’t really matter, either.”

“Of course it does.”

Draco looked down at the thermos. He still hadn’t taken a sip. “I hate you,” he mumbled, the words not sounding convincing, even to himself. “Even if I didn’t, it couldn’t change anything. You think you can make me some kind of project. You can talk as much as you want about how great you think Muggles are. It doesn’t change what they are, or what you are, or what I am. Just because you’re bright doesn’t mean you can change how the world works.”

“I think that’s exactly what it means,” Hermione muttered. “Draco, I don’t think you’re a project.”

Draco scoffed. “You haven’t been lecturing me on Muggles for weeks as a hypothetical exercise. Give me some credit. You’re not exactly subtle.”

“Yes, of course I’ve been trying to convince you not to hate an enormous group of human beings,” Hermione said. “Of course it’s not a hypothetical exercise. Whatever propaganda you seem to think it is, it’s not that, either. I’m talking about my parents, Draco. My friends. People I care about.”

“What did you think the outcome was going to be? That I’d say, ‘Wow, Granger, you’re so right. Let’s be friends and run arm in arm through the halls with Potter and Weasley’?”

“You want the truth?”

Draco put his arm against the stone back of the ledge. “Let’s have it.”

“I started out the term mostly hoping to shut you up. I thought if I had a good enough argument, I could convince you not to hate me.” She cleared her throat nervously. “But I like talking with you. And I think you like talking with me, too. So I think we should drop this stupid pretense of hating each other indefinitely, because it’s not true, and you know it.”

“You should hate me.”

Hermione shook her head. “I’m really not good at hating people. Even if you’re a cocky prat who kind of deserves it.”

His mouth twitched into a small smile despite himself. She didn’t sound angry. Her tone was teasing, almost affectionate. It had been weeks since he’d heard that tone. He didn’t mind hearing it again, and having her at arm’s length and insulting him felt reassuringly normal. 

“So what are you suggesting?”

“We’re on the rota together tomorrow night. Let’s both show up this time. And let’s try talking to each other without spending an hour insulting each other first.” She tugged her robe tighter around herself. “Can you agree to that?”

It wasn’t much more than what he’d done most of the term so far. She couldn’t control what he said, so the ban on insults didn’t mean much. Based on what he’d seen before, he doubted she’d be able to keep her temper for long, either. They could put the fight, and his apology and what came after, behind them, and he could go back to having a few hours in the evenings to satisfy his need for a little company.

“Okay. I’ll come,” he said.

“Good. I’m freezing, and I’ve got a paper to finish before bed. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Draco waited in the cold night air for a while before following down the steps, in case anyone would have been passing by. She’d left her thermos behind. The liquid inside was tepid now, but he brought it down to his room with him anyway. He poured the congealing cocoa out in the sink, rinsed the thermos, and set it on the bottom shelf of his bedside table. It felt comforting to see it there, a little token to prove she’d sought him out, even when she didn’t need to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title courtesy of Fiona Apple, because I am a 90s kid, although I cannot do any writing while listening to her music. It's been really fun to see returning commenters! We're finally in the territory where I got to feel, writing this, like I was past the more standard Dramione preamble and got to start building my own version of the relationship these two smart, opinionated characters could have.


	9. Truce Night

Hermione wasn’t certain he would show until she spotted his figure swaggering through the corridor, and her stomach did a little flip. She ducked her head, hoping to collect herself. He’d make fun of her if he saw her grinning like this. She barely knew what to make of the sudden wave of giddiness, herself. Chalk it up to relief that he was here, mixed with some lingering nervousness from the kiss. But that was behind them now. She shook herself.

“Hi,” she said.

“Hi.” Draco looked less severe than he often did. His hair fell more softly, instead of following a sharp part, and he’d loosened his tie. 

Hermione snickered.

“What?” The guarded look slammed back over his face. It was a shock to see how quickly it happened. Hermione could almost point to all the muscles that tightened in a split second. She held up a hand.

“No, it’s just--I was thinking you look more casual than usual, and then I realized you’re still more dressed up than Harry is any time of day.”

He eased again. “Potter always looks like he dressed in the dark. It’s hardly a compliment if I look better.”

“It’s not an insult.”

He twitched the corners of his mouth down and raised his eyebrows, considering the point. “True enough.”

They decided to swing by the library first. End-of-term exams were still a while off, but most of the younger students would be struggling under the weight of their classes. Stopping by the major study spots was a good way to get a head count. Hermione liked to make a few wide loops through the open spaces where students clustered in groups to puzzle through their spellwork. More often than not, she got flagged down for help with a problem, and that was her best opportunity to check in, hear who was dealing with garden-variety homework problems or having more serious trouble, or even learn who was particularly upset over a failed exam and might need some extra reaching out.

Draco, meanwhile, rarely showed himself in the main areas. He snuck between shelves, catching students making out or slipping toward the Restricted section. If he went near the main study area, he always kept a shelf or two as a barrier so he could listen in on students gossiping over their textbooks.

Draco smirked at her when she met up with him at the library doors again.

“What?” she said.

“It’s funny to watch you strut around the library. You tell me I swagger, but you should see yourself.”

Hermione blushed. “I do not.”

“Of course you do.” He grabbed her book bag and slung it over his shoulder. He puffed his chest out, shook his head back in what even Hermione had to admit was a good mimic of her hair toss, and sashayed down the hall. “I’m Granger, Queen of the library, swooping in to save every miserable snot-nosed first-year from failing Charms.” 

Hermione made a face. It was hard to get too angry at him for teasing her when he was making himself look so ridiculous in the process. “Better than skulking around like you do. Some of the second-years are calling you Shark, because you’re always waiting to attack them.”

“I’m aware. I’m the one listening in on their conversations,” Draco said. “I’m surprised you’re taking their side. They’re all cheating shamelessly whenever they can, and you don’t catch them charging around like an elephant, the way you do. Eavesdropping tells me things. Which reminds me, ask Isobel Dingle to get tea with you on Friday or Saturday. She’s one of yours, right?”

“Why?”

“Her boyfriend’s breaking up with her, probably tonight or tomorrow.”

“Oof. Poor girl,” Hermione said. “I’ll ask Alestra Jordan to check in on her. They’re closer.”

“You won’t do it yourself?”

“I don’t really have much experience in that arena,” Hermione admitted. “I’d be worried about saying the wrong thing.”

Draco gave her a sharp look. “What kind of experience is not much? You’ve dated before, haven’t you?”

“A little. Not much, really,” Hermione said.

“You were attached at the hip to Krum, when he was here.”

“Everybody always brings up Krum,” she said. “I was fourteen.”

“So? He’s a world champion Quidditch player. You could hear girls’ robes hitting the ground as soon as he walked in the door.”

Hermione wrinkled her nose. “I’m a lady.”

Draco laughed. “I’d like to see some of the witches I know hear you call yourself that. They’d be shocked enough by the state of your hair, never mind your blood. They’d have a fit.” 

“You didn’t need to say that to me,” Hermione said quietly. “We said we weren’t insulting each other tonight.”

“We did.” He scrutinized her face. “What are we doing?”

“Making sure none of the students are getting into trouble before curfew, for starters.”

“Ah. Of course.”

Draco stayed on polite terms for the next half hour or so. Almost too polite, Hermione thought. She was beginning to wish she hadn’t reprimanded him for teasing her. She was used to worse from him, after all. That was likely why she’d jumped. He’d been acting friendly, and the first sign that he was making fun of her felt like the end of their truce. But maybe it wasn’t, even if it had seemed to be. If they were going to figure out how to relate to each other when they weren’t at each other’s throats, there were bound to be a few missteps here and there. His somber expression and distanced, courteous tone was getting unnerving.

So she took out her wand and Charmed his robes with a bright, polka dot pattern.

He whirled back toward her. “Really?”

She smiled. “I think it suits you.”

“Yeah, you think? Why don’t you try this on, then?” He flicked his wand at her. The tie she wore with her uniform unknotted itself, slid from around her throat and retied itself into a flouncy bow on top of her head. With another wave of his wand, he’d restored his robes to their handsome shade of dark green, just in time for a third-year to round the corner and stop, visibly confused at Hermione’s gaudy hair ornament.

Hermione fixed her teeth in a smile. “Yes, Elphias? You were looking for me?”

For a while, they cast spells back and forth at each other, grinning as the other tried to remain composed. Hermione turned Draco’s socks to jelly while he was walking, and had to admit she was impressed by his ability to maintain a dignified, intimidating expression that dared the first-years before him to question where the faint squelching noise was coming from. In return, Draco Animated her hair, so the loose tendrils began twisting through the air, serpent-like. Hermione smiled and pulled an extra-thick hair tie and several three-inch bobby pins from her pocket.

“You should know better, Draco. This is basically how it behaves anyway.” She wrestled her hair into one hand, twisted the tie over it, and stabbed the more active locks into submission with the pins. Smaller tendrils ducked a curl apologetically and coiled themselves by her ears.

They met briefly with Michael and Penelope at curfew time to check that the Ravenclaws were accounted for. Once they were past, Hermione and Draco drifted closer together again. It felt more natural, at this point, to walk with her arm occasionally brushing against his. He seemed to enjoy it, too. When a staircase started moving with them on it, his hand automatically went to the small of her back in case she stumbled. He pinched her elbow lightly as a sign when he wanted to whisper something about someone passing, or signal her to look at something without being obvious. She felt the familiar squeeze now, and he nodded back toward where they had left the Ravenclaw prefects.

“Why didn’t you sort into Ravenclaw? It seems like that would have been the obvious fit.”

Hermione raised an eyebrow. “Because Gryffindors can’t be smart?” She mused, trying to remember the details of what the Sorting Hat had told her. She hadn’t thought about the Sorting in a long time. It felt like something that had happened to someone else. “Ravenclaw would have been okay, of course. I guess I already felt like I was bright, and I didn’t need more attention put on it. I know that sounds vain, and I don’t mean it that way. I would have been a bit disappointed in myself if that really was the best I had to offer. Cleverness is important, but bravery’s better, and I suppose the Hat wanted to give me a chance to try.”

“Bravery’s overrated,” Draco said. “Going for pointless heroics is more reckless than admirable, especially when there are more effective ways of getting what you want.”

“I don’t know if you’re going to convince me on that,” Hermione said. “What about you? Did you know you were going to sort into Slytherin?”

“Of course. Malfoys are in Slytherin. Always.”

“You were that sure? No one tells first-years about the Sorting Ceremony. You didn’t know how it would work.”

“It didn't matter how it worked. Some mangy hat wasn’t going to keep me out. Can you imagine if I’d written home and asked them to hang anything but a green banner outside my window? I would have stolen someone’s House robes and snuck into the Slytherin dorms at night, if I’d had to.”

Hermione remembered the Sorting Hat screaming Malfoy’s placement before it was even fully on. It made sense now. “That’s the most Slytherin thing I’ve ever heard.”

He glanced at her. “Coming from you, I don’t know how I’m supposed to take that.”

She shrugged. “Being determined and ambitious aren’t bad things. It depends how you use them.”

Once they were satisfied that student life in the castle was under control, they headed to an east-facing hallway. The windows were built in with generous benches, padded with thick cushions. Hermione took a seat on one end, resting her back against the side of the window seat. Draco sat on the edge again, like he’d done up on the Astronomy Tower the previous evening.

“Relax,” Hermione said. “You don’t need to sit so stiff if you don’t want to.”

“Just because I’m not slouching doesn’t mean I’m stiff,” Draco said. He settled in to face her, though, putting his legs up on the seat. He crossed one arm over his knees, and he did look much more relaxed. He had a way of fixing her with a steady, appraising gaze, a certain look of wary hopefulness in his eyes, that Hermione found unsettling and fascinating. “So what do we do now?”

“Do you want to play a game?” Hermione said. Draco still looked so serious. She wanted him to loosen up a little, crack a smile.

“Like what?” 

“Don’t laugh, but do you know how to play Concentration?”

He shook his head.

“Figures. It’s a girls’ game. Where I grew up, at least, that is. I don’t know if witches play it when they’re little. You take turns naming things in a category, and the first person to repeat something or take too long to come up with something new loses. I thought since we’re both good at Transfiguration, we might be able to play a harder version.” She took a fork out of her pocket.

“We take turns changing it into something?” Draco sat forward, reaching for his wand.

“Yes,” Hermione said, encouraged to see him interested. “Here, let me do the intro. I’ll do an easy category first, so we can practice.” She knew it as a hand-clap game, with three claps in between each part of the opening chant. It didn’t feel right to do it any other way, even if it felt a bit silly. “Concentration--” *clap clap clap* “64--”

“Why 64?” Draco interrupted.

“No reason. That’s just how it is. Let me just do it. You’ll know when it’s time to go. Concentration--64--no repeats--or hesitations. I’ll go first.” She drew her wand. “You’ll go second. Category: kitchenwares.” She flourished the wand, and changed the fork into a spoon. 

They went through the obvious things first: spoon, knife, butter knife (“Okay, if that’s how you want to play it,” Draco said), steak knife, chef’s knife, paring knife, salad fork (“Bloody finally”), soup spoon. 

Then Hermione Transfigured Draco’s soup spoon into an instrument whose handle ended in a crescent, with a slitted blade spanning the width of the crescent.

“What’s that supposed to be?” Draco said. 

“It’s a potato peeler.”

“There’s no such thing as a potato peeler. You lose.”

Hermione laughed. “Of course there is!”

“No there isn’t, you just use a knife.”

“Sure, if you want to cut your thumb.”

“How would you cut yourself?” Draco looked at her incredulous face. Realization dawned. “You don’t Charm your utensils?”

“Draco, I grew up in a Muggle house, remember?” Hermione picked up the potato peeler. “See, you’d hold it like this, and then the blade isn’t too close to your hand. Potatoes can be slippery when they’re half-peeled.”

Draco tipped his chin up haughtily. “I wouldn’t know. But fine, I’ll allow it. Put it down, it’s my turn.”

“Please. No hesitations. You forfeit the round.”

“That was a clarification, not a hesitation. I knew what I was doing next.”

“Oh my God. Okay, fine. Go.”

He flicked his wand and turned it into a whisk. 

Hermione couldn’t resist. On her next turn, the whisk made a little popping sound and turned into a sturdier utensil, the loops of the whisk thickening and rearranging so they were perpendicular to the handle.

Draco shook his head. “I don’t know what that is, either.”

She grinned mischievously. “It’s a potato masher.”

“Oh, for Merlin’s sake, Granger, do you eat anything but potatoes?” He held up his hands. “I surrender. Who can compete with your obsession with root vegetables? Don’t you put down your wand, we’re doing best two out of three. And I’m picking the categories from now on--no Muggle tricks allowed.”

They played three more rounds, in fact, although they had to bend the definition of “hesitation” considerably to allow enough time to perform the difficult Transfigurations for the magical creatures round. It was after the end of that round, when Draco was practicing a Sphinx he’d messed up during the game, that Hermione saw an angry-looking mark on his skin.

“What on earth did you do to your hand?” 

He tried to yank it out of her view, but he wasn’t fast enough. She grabbed his hand and pulled it closer to get a better look. It was pink and raw, shiny where wounds were healing over into scar tissue. Hermione touched his palm gently. There was a particularly nasty patch near his thumb. He winced when she grazed it.

“Sorry, sorry,” Hermione whispered.

Draco didn’t say anything. He didn’t pull away, either. 

Hermione turned his hand in hers, letting her fingers trace over the scars. When he’d brandished a wand at her chest the first night of term, she hadn’t noticed any of this. 

“It’s like you shoved it down a garbage disposal,” she muttered.

“A what?”

“Nothing.” She rubbed her thumb across one of his fingernails, causing another flinch. “What happened?”

“A potion exploded on me.”

Hermione pursed her lips. “Seamus explodes potions all the time, and he’s never hurt himself like this.” Her fingers continued to brush against the scars marking his skin. Draco’s hand was warm in hers. When she inspected the scars on his fingers and knuckles, his fingers curled in toward hers, almost interlocking. The odd thing was that some of the scars were vivid pink, while others were duller, or almost white. “It doesn’t even look like one injury. Some of those scars crisscross over each other. It’s like you’ve been hurting yourself for a while.”

He tugged his hand back. “It’s nothing.” Moonlight coming through the window made him look even paler. His eyes were hollow and shadowed, and the naked terror Hermione saw in them, if only for a second, made her catch her breath.

“Draco,” she said. “Are you in trouble?”

For a moment she thought she saw him take a breath to say something. Then he swallowed hard. 

“I can manage my own affairs, Granger.” He stood up. “Isn’t it time we did our job, instead of lazing around the castle all night?”

Hermione caught his hand again, just holding it this time, and tilted her head up toward him. “If you were--and I’m not saying you are--you could tell me, if you wanted. I’d want to hear it. I’d want to help, if I could.”

His grey eyes met hers. “You think very highly of your own abilities, don’t you? I don’t know if you really can do everything you seem to think you can. You’d better hope you’re right.” He took his hand from hers, but not roughly. “It might be better if we kept all this separate from the rest of our lives. This wasn’t a bad thought--having a truce, tonight. I haven’t minded it. But don’t start thinking that when other people are around--”

“I wasn’t,” Hermione interrupted. “I just wanted to let you know talking to me was an option. No, I hardly expect you to come around during the day. Think of Harry and Ron’s faces! They wouldn’t speak to me for a month.” She paused. “I’m having a nice time. Let’s just go back to that.”

Draco gave her a slight smile of relief. It was time for another pass through the halls they were assigned to watch. Taking a leisurely pace, they could make it last the final half hour and part ways at the Runed Staircase, which tended to be halfway between their respective dorms this time of year. 

Before they reached the 10-minute mark, they’d found their way back into comfortable conversation. By the time they neared the last few halls of their rounds, Draco was teasing Hermione again, and she was laughing and protesting.

“He's a fine cat. I'm not disputing that. But if you die, he'll eat you.”

“He would not! Crookshanks is a noble creature.”

“He’s a hungry animal, and if you try to ascribe anything else to him, you’re lying to yourself. Once you die, you’re just meat as far as he’s concerned. And what's more,” Draco continued, “He'd start with your face.”

“That's disgusting. Why would you say that?”

He shrugged. “It’s soft and delicious.”

Hermione caught him by the arm. “Wait, wait, hold on. Do you hear that?”

He stopped, listened. “Weasley.” 

Hermione groaned internally. Just when things were going so well. The last thing she wanted was some awkward confrontation to spoil the end of the evening.

Draco seemed to be thinking the same thing. “Your friend’s here to save you from my company,” he spat. “Shall I prepare my goodbyes?”

“I don’t know why he’s up this way. One of the staircases must be feeling frisky,” Hermione said. “He hasn’t tried to switch out with us before, there’s no reason for him to do it now. Just act like you don’t like me, so he doesn’t think anything’s off.”

“Someone’s confident I don’t still dislike her,” Draco remarked to the portraits hanging along the wall.

“Stop talking to me,” Hermione whispered. “We can’t be chatting, he’ll know something’s wrong. You can’t smile at me or anything.”

“Granger, I’ve hated you for five years. I remember how to do it.”

“Okay, fine. Be natural, though.” She gave him an appraising look. His features had already set into a mask of cold indifference. His shoulders were back, and he swaggered down the hall like a young lord. “Yes, that looks good.”

“Are you sure, though?” Draco muttered out of the corner of his mouth. “You don't want to give me a quick lesson on how to act like myself? He's still down at that end of the hall.”

“Yes, all right, I get it.” She reached out to give him a playful shove, but he blocked her.

“Don't touch me, stupid, he'll see it.”

Ron waved at Hermione. “Everything all right, Hermione?” he called, still down by the History of Magic classroom door.

Hermione gave an exasperated sigh and rolled her eyes. “All right, I suppose. Dealing with this git,” she shouted back. In the corner of her eye, she saw Draco give the slightest shake of his head, and she thought his lip might have twitched.

As Ron came within a few feet, Draco whipped toward Hermione, face twisted into a withering expression of disdain.

“Granger,” he snarled at her, drawling her name out with exaggerated menace.

Hermione’s chest spasmed with her effort to swallow her laugh. She tried to disguise it by baring her teeth back at Draco, but then their eyes met, and she snorted before she could help it. 

Draco grabbed her by the arm and dragged her around the corner into an empty classroom. Hermione pressed her lips together, but her cheeks were twitching. Draco covered her mouth with his hand just as the dam broke.

“Stop it,” he hissed as she giggled into his hand. “For Merlin’s sake, Granger, pull it together. You’re embarrassing yourself.” He was grinning, too. He had to look away from her face every few seconds as he scolded her to keep himself from cracking. “Honestly, Granger, control yourself. You’re going to ruin everything. This is shocking. Unseemly for a witch of your reputation.”

“Shut up, you prat,” Hermione choked out between fits of laughter. Every time she thought she was done, she looked up at Malfoy, and his mock-stern expression set her off all over again. She felt him put a hand on her shoulder to steady her, and her head tipped forward so her forehead touched his chest.

That quieted her a little, although a few stray giggles still bubbled up. Draco had stopped scolding. He was standing quite still, and Hermione felt his hand drift down from her shoulder to rest in the middle of her back. A moment later, the other hand snaked around her waist to join it, circling her in his arms. She didn’t move. It felt nice, being here, feeling his breath tickle a few flyaway hairs, and the warmth of his hands against her back. She didn’t entirely know what to do with her hands; there wasn’t really a place to put them that wasn’t Draco. The circle felt like it was drawing tighter, almost imperceptible except for her urge to take a step closer. Hermione put her hand on his waist.

He shifted, breaking the touch. 

“We’d better finish up.” They hurried down to the next staircase. Draco snickered. “‘Dealing with this git,’” he repeated softly, adding what Hermione thought was a rather theatrical flair to the cadence. 

Hermione wasn’t quite ready to head back to the Gryffindor dorms, so she didn’t say anything when they reached the Runed Staircase. Neither did Draco. They kept walking together, in pleasant silence, until they reached the top of the narrow staircase down to the dungeons. 

Draco turned to face her, putting both arms up so his palms pressed against the walls on either side of the staircase. He was technically blocking her, but it didn’t feel the same as it used to. He was leaning forward slightly, his face close to hers.

“It’s nice down there, you know. It hasn’t been a dungeon in ages.” He licked his lips, took a breath. “There’s a big window, made of Warded glass. You can see everything swimming past, in the moat. The Giant Squid’s pretty cool. I thought it was scary, when I was a first-year, but it’s very gentle and graceful. And when the moon’s strong enough, all this green light comes shining through the water.”

“It sounds beautiful,” Hermione said.

“It’s very beautiful.” He picked an invisible speck off his sleeve cuff. “I thought you might like to know. I’ll see you tomorrow?”

Hermione nodded. “I’d like that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Draco Malfoy as a character has fascinated me for quite some time, but it was only when I started writing about him that I started to understand what my own deal was (writing can be like that). If you're reading any kind of Draco-centered fanfic, I imagine you'd agree he seems to be a much more nuanced, interesting person than the overall canonical arc would have us believe (i.e., basically he's a weak, mean bully who can't handle the enormity of where his bad choices lead him).
> 
> One of my beta readers said it best when she pointed out that JKR is such a strong Gryffindor herself that it could be ironically easy for her to overlook facets of characters she herself created, because they don't hold up to her strongly-held ideals. I'd definitely say Draco is one of the stronger examples of this!
> 
> Basically, I was skimming through HBP and a few earlier books as well, scanning for Draco's name in an attempt to glean anything about who in the world this boy is when he's not actively antagonizing Harry Potter. It's weird to think I'd have to hunt for any indication of what Draco's like when he's happy. But in the costumes, and badges, and ridiculous songs, the way he rallies other Slytherins to go along with his ideas, even the way it seems they listen to him when he's telling exaggerated stories over meals in the Great Hall, all these clues point toward someone who...is probably actually fun to be around. One of the most fun parts of telling this story the way I intend to is trying to uncover my best guess on who he might have been all along, to anyone who looked at him without Harry Potter's bias.


	10. Flood

Draco Malfoy was feeling good. He could barely remember the last time he’d felt like this, in fact. Months ago, at least, but it felt like much longer. Draco had to admit it was mostly thanks to Granger, at least within the privacy of his own mind. He would have thought the first night of their truce was a fluke, but it had felt even easier in subsequent evenings. They were almost halfway through December now, which meant their new agreement had been in effect for over three weeks.

He was sleeping soundly at night and waking up feeling clear-headed and alert. His mind didn’t wander so much during classes. The concepts and theories behind the spells and potions fit together neatly in his head again, and he was occasionally even beating Granger to the punch at answering questions. Not that he’d go so far as to play teacher’s pet, but he liked whispering the answer loud enough for her and a few others to hear, to make sure she knew she wasn’t the only one paying attention.

It wasn’t only his classwork that had improved. Work on the Vanishing Cabinet was going better than it had all year. Draco didn’t know whether it was simply a matter of accessing some of the inner workings or whether his more balanced state of mind accounted for the shift, and he didn’t much feel like questioning it. Whatever the reason, he was fixing multiple faulty spots per day, erasing them from his map and waving a finger smugly through clear air that had once cost him blood. It often felt like the Cabinet was alive and tormenting him. Pulling its teeth one by one was satisfying.

Draco wouldn’t have believed he and Granger could be around each other without being at each other’s throats, but somehow the time filled. They talked and played Exploding Snap and ERS and wandered around the castle together, and suddenly it would be 11 o’clock and time to say goodnight. If any of the disapproving shadows in his head had manifested themselves in front of him, he knew the perfect offhand tone to dismiss Granger as an idle diversion, a way to clear his head to focus better on more important tasks, but he was more grateful all the time for his talent and hours of practice at Occlumency. It was getting harder to hide how much he looked forward daily to her conversation, her company. Her touch.

That part was harder to admit, even to himself, but impossible to deny. He’d noticed Granger getting even more familiar in her manners since the first truce night. To his shame, he’d barely managed to scrape together more than a half-hearted protest the first time she flopped down next to him to study, leaning companionably against his shoulder. Neither one of them had mentioned the kiss again, nervous about anything that would crumble the new ease between them. It didn’t mean he never thought about it, especially when she tucked herself up close enough that their breathing naturally fell into rhythm together.

“Were you raised in a barn?” he grumbled when she plopped next to him again that night, close enough to knock his book into his lap.

“You’re the one who chose a bench with no cushions,” she said, opening her own book. “I can’t focus if I’m not comfortable.”

Draco couldn’t focus with her snuggling against him like that, although he was hardly about to say as much. He lifted his hand for a moment, deciding, then pushed her hair to her opposite shoulder. “At least keep that bird’s nest out of my face so I can see the page.”

“Prat.”

“Mhm.” Her hair wasn’t tickling against his cheek anymore. Instead, he now had an excellent view of the curve of her neck and the dip of her collarbone. She was wearing her robe open in the front, so following the line of her neck naturally led toward...other curves, which didn’t help the distraction. 

It would be more comfortable for both of them if she wasn’t leaning against his arm, but his side. All he had to do was slide his arm around behind her, and she could just sink into him. 

And then the real question was whether to let his hand rest low enough for his fingers to brush the sliver of skin where her shirt rode up above the waistband of her skirt.

The sound of approaching footsteps made him pull away. Ephigenia Mistle was a Ravenclaw fourth-year. She wore purple-rimmed glasses and liked to decorate her hair with rows of tiny butterfly clips arching over the top of her head. The wings fluttered on their springs as she skidded to a stop in front of Draco and Hermione.

“You’ve got to come quick. It’s the fifth-floor bathrooms. They’re all flooding!”

Hermione swore under her breath. “Come on, we need to go!”

“Malfoys don’t run.” Draco was, however, forced into a brisk walk if he wanted to keep up with Granger. “What’s up there?”

“The Music room and instruments, Art classroom and supply room, Muggle Studies, the Upper Hall, the Rare and Dangerous Books Archive.” Her face paled when she mentioned the books, and she quickened her pace. 

They heard the water before they saw it. Hermione took the last few steps at a sprint, shoes splashing in a torrent of water gushing through the hallway. The prefects’ bathroom was high-ceilinged and spacious, with a tub big enough for a Quidditch team in the center of the room, porcelain sinks flanking each section of ribbed vault bowing down from the ceiling, and a massive stained-glass window depicting a mermaid.

Water hissed and burbled and roared. Jets of water arced in glittering streams from each broken faucet. The tub had become something like a giant cauldron, churning a whirlpool of water that sloshed in waves over the floor. Showers pointed their nozzles into the air and clouded the mermaid in a haze of mist. 

“What the hell is going on?” Draco said. He shot a  _ Reparo  _ at one of the faucets, and the metal snapped back into place, clamping down on the flow of water. He glared at the quivering fourth-year, who was twisting her hands beneath her chin at the entrance, without setting foot on the flooded tile. “What are they teaching you in Charms? Can’t you fix a leak yourself?”

“Just watch,” she quavered.

A shrill, grinding sound rippled up from within the walls. It streamed over the ceiling and died away somewhere low. A moment later, the faucet unscrewed itself, whipping around with high-pitched squeaks that hurt Draco’s teeth. The tub seethed, bubbles the size of a fist. Steam wafted over the foaming water.

“Thanks for finding us, Ephigenia,” Hermione said. “You can go. We’ll take care of it.”

The fourth-year nodded, butterflies fluttering, and splashed her retreat.

“We will?” Draco muttered.

“This could be a few things,” Hermione said. “Freshwater pixies nesting in the pipes, or too many potions dumped down the drain. We can fix it, once we figure out what’s going on.”

They spent a futile fifteen minutes testing different repairing spells. Applying an anti-freezing charm did nothing, so it wasn’t as simple as a pipe cracking in the cold weather. None of the usual suspects for metal, water, or all-purpose binding magic worked. In a moment of frustration, Draco cast a complicated series of spells and strengthening charms to get a single spout under control. The water shut off for thirty seconds, and then there was a creaking, groaning sound, and the entire sink burst loose. Water sprayed Draco full in the face, soaking his hair and robes. He took his robe off and heaved it over the edge of a shower stall. Hermione looked over at him and followed suit, leaving her in her light purple button-down.

“Right,” she said. “Definitely not a potions issue. I’ve tested for everything I can think of, which should about cover it.”

“Unless whoever poured a bad cauldron down the drain wasn’t working out of a textbook.”

Hermione put a hand on her hip. “I tested for those, too. I’ve brewed my share of extracurricular potions.”

“Really?” Draco gave her a sharp look. “Like what?”

“Oh, this and that. I royally screwed up my first batch of Polyjuice--”

“You can brew  _ Polyjuice  _ potion?”

She clapped a hand over her mouth. “I keep forgetting it’s illegal. You didn’t hear that.”

He would have pressed her further, but another one of those unholy screeches reverberated on the other side of the tile. “So not potions. Got it. I wouldn’t mind shutting off that noise. It gives me the willies. Do you think something got in?”

“Could be. This time of year, a lot of creatures would want a way out of the cold. Besides pixies, what else--maybe nagas, or even a juvenile water drake? It would have to be small enough to get through the pipes, but still strong, is the thing.” She disappeared around a corner, leaving Draco to conduct his own searches. 

Some lesser members of the dragon family lived in water, but Draco doubted any of them would find its way in here. The logistics of it were all wrong. You’d need something big to cause this much damage, or a small army of smaller creatures, and there was no food source, nothing for them to live off of.

“Myrtle.” Granger emerged from a bathroom stall. “The toilets are still, though the water in the tanks has gone a strange color. She’s fond of the stalls. If this were nagas, or even something small like Gillywhelks, the toilets would be going off, too.”

“So where is she?” Draco had his wand out. The ghost wasn’t normally shy. Sensitive, yes, and temperamental, but it was unnerving not to be able to see her. Another piercing shriek tore through the pipes overhead. “If that’s her, she’s headed out of the bathroom.”

“Can she do that?” Hermione followed him, splashing through the ankle-deep water cascading down the hall. “I thought she was stuck in the bathroom.”

“She travels in the pipes. That’s how she gets from one bathroom to another.”

The noise in the pipes led them to the Rare and Dangerous Books Archive.

When they got there, Myrtle was waiting for them. A crystal vase of water shattered on the wall next to them as soon as they got in the room. 

“Heartless! Hateful!” she screeched. 

Hermione stepped forward, wand at the ready. “Myrtle, what’s going on? Turn the water off and tell us about it.”

“Come to make fun of Myrtle,” Myrtle said. “Ugly, miserable. Wretched little breather witch.”

“No one’s going to make fun of you, Myrtle.” Hermione took another step. “Isn’t that right, Draco?”

The ghost noticed Draco, and her expression immediately changed. “You!” 

A shelf’s worth of books flew off the bookcase and pelted themselves at Draco’s face. He threw an arm up to protect himself, and got snagged by one of those demented books with teeth. He blasted it off him with a crack of his wand, and fired a few more spells to keep some of the others at bay. 

Moaning Myrtle was a weeping hurricane swirling through the room. “Hateful!” she screamed again. “Vicious, lying, cruel! They all say it. Think I don’t hear. Ugly, worthless, snivelling. Who’s crying in the bathroom again?  _ Who’s crying? _ ” Her voice slid up into a piercing wail. More books shot off the shelves. Another vase exploded, the shards twisting through the air. Myrtle raced around the room, pelting whatever she could find into the air and screaming incoherently. She was spreading out, her edges going hazy. Draco and Hermione were caught in a maelstrom of ghost and debris.

“Miserable, mewling, moping, moaning!” Her voice felt disconnected from the spectral form she usually presented. It thudded in the walls, in the pit of Draco’s stomach. Hermione took the corner of a book to her temple and dropped, holding her head.

_ “Arresto Totale!” _ Draco accompanied the shout with a commanding flourish of his wand. The books, inkwells, and other projectiles stopped in mid-flight, hanging motionless in air. Myrtle dissolved into the seams of the walls. Draco dropped to one knee.

“Granger? Are you all right?” He shook her shoulder.

“Yes, I’m fine. Come on, we need to get her.”

“We need to get  _ out.” _

Granger shook her head. “She’ll cause more trouble. We’ve got to get her settled somehow, or she’ll tear the whole floor apart.” Her gaze took in the room, with all the objects suspended. Lamplight caught hundreds of shards of glass. What had been pandemonium could now be mistaken for a giant chandelier of books and crystals, each piece floating separate from the others.

“Nice.” She gave the room another appreciative look. “Count on you to make it stylish, even when we’re being attacked.”

“Save it,” Draco said, gratified that she’d noticed. “Let’s go get this over with.”

Back in the prefects’ bathroom, Myrtle had grown and distorted. Her body was obscured by a cloud of greasy smoke that curled like ink in water. Python-thick tendrils swirled like limbs, undulating over porcelain and glass. Where they touched, water sputtered and steamed. Her face was misshapen. She seemed to have too many faces at once, like photos flooded and bleeding into each other. A slash of a mouth or a gasping one, swollen eyes or sunken and dead, a squashed nose melting into other features. Draco’s eye couldn’t pick a steady face to concentrate on as the real one. Then he could, and the realization sent a hideous drop into his stomach. It was the face that was fixed on him.

“Why are you crying?” The ghost girl’s tone changed, turning syrupy sweet. Her form pulled in, closer to the size of the person she used to be. She cocked her head, a posture of concern, but her expression was blank. She was looking at Draco.

“I’m not,” he said. His wand hand faltered. Next to him, Hermione shot him a sharp look.

Myrtle drifted closer, head still tilted to the side. “What’s the matter?” she said. “You can tell me. I was lonely, too.”

“What’s she talking about?” Hermione whispered. She raised her voice, and her wand hand lifted a few inches. “Myrtle, you need to stop.” She took a step forward, then halted as the pattering sound of water got louder.

Myrtle’s form shuddered. Two faucets snapped off their fixtures with a tinny shriek and ricocheted off the opposite wall. Water hissed as it sprayed into the air. But the pattering didn’t come from the broken sinks. It seemed to be coming from Myrtle herself. Water poured off of her, dripping from her dark pigtails, running down her pale face like sweat, gushing from her hands. It didn’t disappear as it left the borders of her form. Real drops splashed into the water swirling on the bathroom floor. They turned the water ashy grey where they fell, and round blobs like oil floated to the surface. Myrtle didn’t take her gaze off Draco. When she spoke again, her voice had a metallic quality, like she was calling through a pipe.

“Why aren’t you  _ crying?” _

A sharp, stinging pain in his eyes, forcing them shut. He gasped and pressed his fingers into his eyes.

“What is it?” Granger’s voice, next to him. “What’s happening?”

The pain plunged deeper. His knees buckled. He could hear Granger’s voice as if from far away, but there was no way to make his brain translate the sounds into speech. There was something wet dripping over his fingers. He couldn’t unscrew his eyelids to look. His eyes felt like they were boiling. 

Just as it seemed he’d start screaming or pass out, her shout cut through the agony.

“He’s not yours, so back the bloody hell off!” 

A sizzling, crackling sound, a smell of ozone, and the pain just--stopped. Cleared away, like it was never there. His fingers still felt wet, but he was soaked through anyway. When he opened his eyes and wiped his face, he didn’t see anything but water. The sounds of water spraying in the bathroom were dying away, too, leaving just stray trickles and drops as the pipes settled again.

Then Granger was kneeling in front of him, her hands on his face.

“Are you all right? Your face--it was like ink, it was awful.”

“I’m fine. It’s okay. The pain’s gone.” He stood, wand out, hand shaking with leftover adrenaline. “Where is she? Is she hiding again?”

“No, she’s gone. Not permanently, but it’ll take her a good bit of time to gather herself again, I’d expect.” 

“Are you certain? What did you even do to her?”

“I was reading about Muggle ghost-hunting methods, in my free time. I thought if I could understand more about how magical and non-magical people perceive supernatural entities--anyway,” she cut herself off. “I used a blast of electromagnetic energy to temporarily destabilize the spectral wavelengths. She was drawing water into her somehow, so I thought I could frazzle whatever aspect of the ectoplasm was materializing. Turns out I was right.”

Draco started laughing weakly. “Of course. Obviously, you’d work out a spell to destabilize spectral wavelengths in your free time. Who would you even be, otherwise?” He swiped at his eyes again, reflexively, although even the memory of the pain was fading. “Merlin, I’m glad you’re here.”

She was soaking wet, hair dripping into her sodden shirt. Her wand was still in her hand. There were tiny droplets of water in her eyelashes. She had a ridiculous stray wisp of hair plastered to her forehead, and her top was rumpled, and she was out of breath but laughing anyway in triumph and disbelief.

_ Mistakes. _

But a bigger mistake not to.

He put his hands on either side of her face and kissed her. It felt even better than he remembered. There was no hesitation this time, both of them pulling each other closer and pressing themselves into the kiss. She was so warm. Her lips pulled him in, now firm, now yielding, matching his rhythm. When he opened his mouth, her lips parted with his. He slipped his tongue in her mouth, and she put her hands on the back of his neck. As if he was going to pull away now. 

There was no getting enough. He scrunched her wet curls with his hand. He wanted to mark himself all over her. Let her hair dry imprinted with the shape of his fingers. Let her lips feel bruised when he was finished with them, and let her taste him on every breath. Let her nails leave rows of little crescent moons over his shoulders.

She was shivering. Her body melted against his, or it would, without layers of clammy fabric in the way. He slid his hands under her shirt. Her belly twitched under his palms. His hands must be cold. They wouldn’t be for long. He started with the bottom buttons and worked his way up. If she wanted to protect her modesty, she could stop him before he reached her chest. Her hands were under his shirt at the waist, following the dip of his spine and tracing curious paths over his stomach.

She moved her shoulders, helping him peel the clinging shirt off. He pulled back for a moment to get a look at her. A spray of freckles across her chest. Light blue, satiny bra, with a tiny bow between her breasts. Goosebumps prickling on her skin. 

Her fingers found the buttons of his shirt, too. He undid his cuffs and then helped her finish undoing the bottom few buttons. As soon as he tugged the shirt off, her arms wrapped around him again. He bent his head to kiss under her jawline and trace down her neck. She tilted her head to give him easier access. She made a little noise when he started working his way along her collarbone, and another one when his hands, sloping up her waist, found their way to the outer curve of her breasts. He skimmed one fingertip under the edge of her bra, found what he was looking for, felt her back arch and her body move, skin sliding over skin.

He hoisted her onto a counter, and Salazar save him, her knees parted for him, letting him press his body into her. Her skirt rode up to bare her thighs. There was still too much fabric in the way, dulling the sensation when he pushed his hips against her. Teasing, maddening.

Her fingertips dipped under the waistband of his boxers, just for a second, and then she was pulling away, reaching back to take his hand off the clasp to her bra. He groaned.

“Not here,” she said. “I can’t. Not like this.”

He rested his forehead against hers, shut his eyes. “Just tell me what you need. I’ll do it.”

“I’m sorry. I just can’t. I need to go. Help me find my shirt?”

Disappointment twisted, cold and bitter. He sucked in his bottom lip for a second. It still tasted like her. “Yeah. Here.”

He tugged his on, too. The damp fabric clung to his skin. Shame made him want to lash out, but he bit his tongue. The Astronomy Tower, her hurt expression when he made fun of her at the first truce, and various arguments flickered in his mind. Granger had a bewildering ability to tell him what she was thinking, even when it obviously put her at a disadvantage. She was heading for the door, mumbling something about cleaning up the Rare Books room.

“Granger.”

She turned.

His heart was beating fast, but he had to say it. “Was this a mistake? Next time I see you, do I pretend this didn’t happen?”

She came back, splashing through a puddle, cupped his cheek, and kissed him. “God no,” she said, lingering with her lips still nearly touching his. “Don’t you dare.”

He nodded and let her go. He stayed in the bathroom for a little while to think, looking into the now calm waters in the giant tub. The sting of the disappointment was fading somewhat, especially after that last, slow kiss. She’d wanted him all over her. She’d promised not to forget it. For the moment, then, that would have to be enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was sorely tempted to add a "Gritty Reboot of Moaning Myrtle" tag, but decided not to just in case I'd spoil a surprise for anyone. 
> 
> More coming on Monday. Have a great weekend, and thanks as ever for reading!


	11. Cold

Hermione pulled her scarf tighter around her neck. Fierce winds whipped through the outdoor corridors, sending dry flurries of snow whirling through the air. She would rather have been curled up by the fire in the Gryffindor common room, but Harry needed to pace, and to talk where no one but the three of them could hear.

“Dumbledore and McGonagall won’t listen,” he said. “Malfoy cursed Katie, I just know it. He smuggled that necklace into Hogwarts somehow. She’s not going to be out of the infirmary for weeks.”

“She shouldn’t be here at all, I’d think,” Ron said. “Dunno why her parents are keeping her here. Whether it was Malfoy or not, whoever it was could try to finish the job.”

“It’s not safe to transport her,” Hermione said. “I visited her two days ago.”

“Is she awake yet?” Harry said hopefully. “She’s the only witness. If she saw Malfoy before he did it--”

Hermione shook her head. “She’s still unconscious. Madame Pomfrey was the one who told me they couldn’t move her yet. She wouldn’t tell me what curse Katie was under, but sleeping draughts help the healing process.” She’d caught the scent of black rosehip, Ionic stinging nettle, and bittersweet. Powerful protections against Dark Magic, and forgetfulness. The potion was brewed strong enough to sting Hermione’s eyes, so Madame Pomfrey must be concerned. 

Harry clenched his fists. “He could have killed her.”

Ron cleared his throat. “I’m not saying you’re right,” he said. “But if you are--if he’s really gone over to You-Know-Who’s side--we ought to come up with a plan.” He shook his head. “Malfoy’s always been a slimy little bastard, but I wouldn’t have thought he’d go, y’know. Evil.”

“Ron’s right,” Harry said. “Dumbledore’s got so much on his mind with the travels and his lessons with me, and McGonagall isn’t going to take me seriously unless I catch Malfoy in the act. He might be planning to hurt other students, and we’re the only ones paying attention. We have to have a plan to stop him.”

“What are you even suggesting?” Hermione said.

“You turned Rita Skeeter into a bug,” Ron said. “Think Crookshanks would fancy a playmate? Maybe a ferret?”

Harry laughed. 

“I’m not doing that,” Hermione said.

“You’ve never even been tempted?” Ron said. “Come on. All those nights stuck looking at that pointy face and you’ve never once wanted to just bounce him down a few staircases?”

Harry sighed, raising his eyes heavenward. “I still remember that sound.”

“You must be some kind of saint, Hermione,” Ron said. “What’s your secret?”

Hermione blanched.

“She keeps score,” Harry said. “Hasn’t she told you? She counts up insults on both sides. But she takes points off him when he calls her...well. You know.”

“Filthy,” Hermione mumbled, when the silence crept too long. “Or Mudblood.”

“I don’t see how that helps much, if he keeps calling you names,” Ron said.

Harry looked at Hermione again. She fidgeted with the sash of her coat. 

“It’s easier to laugh at someone when you’re concentrating on how predictable they sound. They didn’t feel so much like insults anymore. They were just stupid mistakes he didn’t even know he was making.”

Ron shrugged. “Whatever helps you stand him, I guess. Pompous asswipe.”

“We’ve got to figure out a way to catch him,” Harry said. “We need proof he’s up to something. I’ll check the Map, keep an eye on his whereabouts. Hermione, maybe you can try and trip him up? You’ve got the best chance of any of us to watch him more closely. If you can goad him somehow, make him confess--you’ve got a strange look on your face.”

“Is that really your idea of a plan?”

“It’s the best we’ve got for now,” Harry said.

Ron stamped his feet and shoved his hands deeper in his pockets. “This wind is going to freeze my face off. What do you say we head in? The Hufflepuff Quidditch team is celebrating. I heard someone snuck a bottle of Firewhiskey back from the last Hogsmeade trip.”

“I’ll take a rain check,” said Hermione. “I’ll drop by later, maybe, if I have time.”

“You’re not going to the library again, are you?” asked Harry. “Studying is great and everything, but you’re not leaving yourself much time to relax.”

“She’s Hermione, mate, she’ll relax when she’s dead.”

“You’re coming to Slughorn’s Christmas party at least, right? You promised.”

Ron grimaced. “Ugh, what a load of bollocks. You want her to have fun, so you suggest she spend an evening simpering at Slughorn and his crowd of brown-nosers? Present company excepted, of course,” he added, somewhat skeptically.

Hermione managed a smile. “I did, and I’ll be there. Professor Slughorn was so insistent on picking one of your free evenings. He’s going to be all over you, so brace yourself.”

“I’ve got Voldemort after me, Hermione. I’m always braced.”

She threw a snowball at his retreating back, and laughed at his shout of protest. For a moment it seemed like Harry might come after her, but Ron grabbed his sleeve and pulled him toward the inviting warmth at the end of the corridor.

Hermione turned in the opposite direction. She wasn’t going to the library, although she was headed that way. She wanted some time to think. This term had been confusing enough already. Seeing Katie Bell lying pallid and motionless, with livid bruises under her eyes, had been difficult. There was no sense in talking to Harry about Katie; he’d only go on another rant about Malfoy. She’d cross the next outdoor corridor, she decided. It led to an enclosed passageway that ended at a small chapel. Hermione didn’t consider herself particularly devout, but it would be warm in there, and quiet. A good place to think about help and healing.

A voice in the shadows made Hermione jump.

“So that’s the famous Gryffindor courage, then.” Draco stepped out from the pillar he’d been leaning against. In his long black coat, he’d blended in with the shadows. “Not to mention loyalty.”

“Were you out here eavesdropping on us?”

“I was taking a walk. Not that it’s any of your business. Voices carry in the wind,” he said. “Tell me, how often do you and your friends hold a special meeting to laugh at me? Or accuse me of attempted murder?”

“Katie’s our friend, of course Harry’s wondering what happened to her.”

Draco lifted his eyebrows, creasing his forehead. “Not an answer. You’ve got a funny way of deciding who your friends are.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You know Bell about as well as I do, but she’s a Gryffindor, so clearly, she ranks higher than anyone from another House.”

The icy wind needled its way under the collar of Hermione’s coat. She hugged her arms around her.

“So Katie and I aren’t close. Harry and Ron are her teammates. They’re worried, and I don’t need to be her best friend to be worried about her, too. I’m sorry they said things about you that you didn’t want to hear, but it’s not like you’ve given them any reason to put old fights behind them, either.”

“I never expected them to, Granger. I don't care what they have to say about me.” His tone was as cold and terse as she’d ever heard it, but something was different in his expression. A flicker behind the eyes, maybe, that made his sneer look more hurt than haughty. “You were ready to knock my teeth out if I breathed a word against Potter or Weasel. I didn’t realize you keep so quiet when they’re the ones doing the bad-mouthing.”

Another gust of wind whistled through the corridor, and she almost missed his words.

“Did you only ask for a truce because you were scared of me?”

“I'm not scared of you.”

“You know what I mean,” Draco snapped. “You asked for us to show up. Not insult each other. Was that all you wanted?”

“No! I mean, I didn’t expect anything like...what happened,” Hermione said, face stinging, hopefully just from the cold. “You’re the one who said we should keep things--separate. The way things are when we’re together--it doesn’t work the same, around other people. You said that.”

“I was also sticking my neck out for Mudbloods before you even suggested the truce. But what do I know? I’m just a slimy, backstabbing Slytherin.” He noticed her flinch at the slur. “Right, I forgot. I lose a point, don’t I? Take it, with my compliments.” He gave her a sardonic bow of his head, then pushed past her. 

Hermione watched him go. The wind whipping the bottom of his coat made the cloth look liquid, poured over his shoulders. The starkness of the contrast was striking, inky black with the paleness of his hands and hair, the powdery snow crystals that stung where they touched skin. She still felt prickly and ambushed, but part of her wanted to run after him and take his hand.

She had assumed he agreed to the truce reluctantly. She’d thought he’d break it. Even when he didn’t, she’d never consciously considered that the fragile thing that had been starting to happen was something he would have wanted, or hoped for.

That he might trust her, even if only a little bit. That she had the power to destroy everything.


	12. The Invitation

Draco was on his way to the Room of Requirement when he heard the characteristic yowlings of Granger and Weasley in another fight. 

“Slug Club,” Weasley said. “It’s pathetic. Well, I hope you enjoy your party. Maybe he’ll make you Queen Slug.”

“We’re allowed to bring guests,” Granger said. “I was going to ask--” She cut herself off, eyes dark with hurt. She wheeled as Draco’s elbow knocked against her and grabbed a fistful of his sleeve. When she looked at his face, the question came through her gritted teeth seemingly before she could help herself. “Malfoy. Slughorn’s party is this Saturday. Maybe you’d care to go with me?”

He yanked his arm out of her grasp. “You--” The insult died on his lips as his eyes flicked between the two of them, taking in the flashing anger on her face and Weasley’s dull, belligerent expression. She was trying to humiliate Weasley, not him. Draco was still angry with her, but he couldn’t resist digging the redheaded oaf in further. 

“Fine. I’ll see you there, Granger,” he said, matching the challenge he’d heard in her tone. As he’d hoped, Weasley’s face twisted in dumb shock, and Granger squirmed, forehead furrowing as her brain caught up with her mouth. He brushed a slight wrinkle out of his robe where she’d grabbed him and swaggered off before she had a chance to say anything else.

By the time he reached the Room, the pleasure of the moment was already fading. There wasn’t much fun in taking the piss out of Weasley these days. The ginger bastard had thoroughly enjoyed lording the prefect thing over him at every opportunity. And for all the dramatic scenes Granger threw in the halls with that buffoon, it was obvious that she cared about him. As friends, sure, if she said so, but a good friendship, then. Something deep.

It wasn’t that he  _ wanted  _ to go to a party with Granger, as such--it was risky enough for him to talk to her in the quiet halls after curfew, let her cuddle up to him when no one else was around. Still. This false invitation to the party was as close as he was going to get to the real thing, and that knowledge stung more than he cared to admit. 

It was stupid. Merlin knew he had bigger things to focus on than the insipid events of student life. But the thought had nagged at his mind ever since he found out Slughorn was teaching at the school this year. Draco was rich. His family was famous and well-connected. There was every reason for Slughorn to cast his obsequious attention his direction, but the old wizard avoided him at every turn. It wasn’t House squeamishness; Slughorn himself was a Slytherin. Draco told himself the old boot-licker was going batty in his dotage, but he couldn’t shake the thought that, yet again, he hadn’t measured up. 

Practicing in the Room of Requirement didn’t help matters. The gears were fixed, which he’d thought was going to be the hard part. He could wave his hand through the Vanishing Cabinet. He had even, once, heart pounding, stepped inside, and come out again without a scratch. His hand would be notched with dozens of fine scars for life. Not even the healers in the infirmary had been able to repair every slash completely, not to mention the uglier scars from the nights he’d done his best to heal himself, to avoid raising too much suspicion with frequent visits to the hospital wing. The pain had produced at least one result. The Cabinet was finally safe to enter.

Sending anything through wasn’t working, though. Draco didn’t know if he’d made faulty repairs or if this was a completely separate problem he’d only discovered once the obvious flaws were fixed. He set an apple on the dark wood floor, said the incantation, and opened the Cabinet door again to see the apple stubbornly sitting in place. He tried again, with sharper wand movement, and the space was empty, but when he cast the spell to return the apple, only a handful of wet pulp reappeared. He could imagine the other cabinet, splattered with juice and flecks of apple flesh. He was back to a long series of tests, painstakingly trying to determine what was going wrong with the spellcasting or wandwork, or if he had to set up some extra protections to get around Hogwarts’ anti-Apparation warding.

Draco was worn out by the time he left for his rooms, and he groaned when he saw Granger striding in his direction, determination set over her face. She’d be here to set him straight, then. Would it have been so terrible, to let him pretend for one night that he had a party to attend? No subtlety, that was one of the many problems with Gryffindors. He pulled his face into a condescending scowl, hoping it disguised his exhaustion.

“What are you doing here?”

“Draco,” she said. “About what I said, or asked you, earlier--”

“We’re understood, Granger.”

She lifted her chin defiantly. “I came here to tell you the invitation stands. I’d like to have you come with me to the party. If you want.”

He froze. “Why?”

She shifted her weight, looking uncomfortable. He stepped toward her, pressing the question.

“Why do you think I’d want to go anywhere with you?”

Granger glared at him. “If I’m not mistaken, you’re not on Professor Slughorn’s usual list. I thought you’d rather go as a guest than have people wonder why you weren’t there at all.”

“So you’d have me in your debt, in addition to making me a convenient prop so you can take Weasley down a few pegs. What a plot from the brightest witch of our age. Do us all a favor and assume the rest of us have a handful of brain cells. Now piss off, you’re in my way.” He pushed past her, but stopped when he heard her murmur behind him.

“I was going to ask you anyway.”

Draco turned. “Liar.”

“Okay, maybe I hadn’t decided. I wasn’t sure how to ask. But I’ve been thinking about it.” She put a hand through her hair, making it puff up even more than it usually did, if that was possible. “I took it for granted that you’d say no, because you said you wanted to keep things separate, but then you kissed me--”

“That was a one-time thing.”

“That’s not how it felt.”

Draco folded his arms. “If you came expecting a no, then no. Go ask Weasley.”

“Absolutely not.”

“Potter.”

She snorted. “Slughorn’s going to spend most of the party parading Harry around like a prize show pony. And he’s asked Luna to go with him.”

“Go alone, then.”

“It’s looking like that’ll have to be what happens, yes,” she said, sounding tired herself, even disappointed, although that seemed unlikely. “Look, think of it as a peace offering, if that helps. You were right. You’ve taken some risks I didn’t ask you to, even when I wasn’t around, and I should have done better than sitting by when Harry and Ron made fun of you. I thought this could be something...nice. Something you’d enjoy, maybe even a way for us both to have fun. But if you don’t want to go, I can’t make you.”

He watched her walking away, an unpleasant twist in his stomach. It wasn’t as though he’d have to spend the evening by her side, of course. She’d hardly expect that. And what was his alternative? Chances were he’d have to cover her and Weasley’s hall patrol duties if he wasn’t going to Slughorn’s party, effectively parading his exclusion throughout half of Hogwarts. 

“Granger,” he said. “Understanding that dragging me out to a party on your arm is a shoddy attempt at a peace offering. What if I agreed to go?”

She turned back, and her smile of surprise and pleasure looked genuine. “Then we could meet at the West Staircase on the sixth floor on Saturday at eight. The party’s in Slughorn’s office. People will dress up.”

“Don’t think I’m your date.” He curled his lip on the last word. “I’m not there to bring you drinks.”

“I wouldn’t expect you to.” Did he hear relief in her voice? Relief that he was coming, or that he wouldn’t hang around her? Did she answer too fast, or was he on edge, looking for hidden meanings where there were none?

And what on earth was he going to wear?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My incredible beta reader said it best: "Oh like you don't have a million different things that would work for this DON'T LIE DRACO."
> 
> The dialogue between Ron and Hermione at the beginning of this chapter is lifted pretty much verbatim from canon. I do this occasionally (and I'll let you know when I'm cribbing some lines from the source), mostly to highlight ways I felt like it would be surprisingly viable to weave a Draco/Hermione pairing into a lot of the pre-existing, canonical plot structure.
> 
> One aspect of D/H that interests/sometimes frustrates me is the attention that's given (or, often, not) to Hermione's growth. Draco is an epic little disaster, and it can be so easy to write Hermione off as basically perfect in comparison. I say, let's give Hermione chances to mess up, and learn and grow, even if, as effervescenttension1183 pointed out, Draco has a bit of chutzpah to call Hermione out while he is currently working on his "big ole 2parter mission." ;-)


	13. Slughorn's Party

Hermione smoothed her dress and fought the urge to dart down the hall and check the clock again. She couldn’t see it from the stairs, but she didn’t want to risk Draco arriving and not finding her at their meeting spot. No chance he’d wait. So she had to. The last time she checked was three minutes past, which felt more like hours. 

She was wearing pink and regretting the choice more by the minute. Ginny had apparently read enough L.M. Montgomery to decide she could never wear the color and took the opportunity to live vicariously through Hermione. Hermione wasn’t sure the ruched, taffeta confection Ginny swooned over suited her any better for not being a redhead, but it was too late to do anything about it now. She tugged at the straps, peering down at the neckline. It felt like it was maybe too low, but Ginny had promised that it looked right. 

Hermione had her arm twisted up behind her back, trying unsuccessfully to shift a tag on the inside of the dress to a less itchy position without unzipping herself in the middle of the hall, when Draco appeared.

Draco wore long black dress robes that were cut slim to the hip, then flared out gradually so the material billowed as he walked. His dress shirt was white as fresh paper, and folded just as crisply at his wrists and throat. To Hermione’s mild surprise, Draco wasn’t wearing green, but a moody, blue-grey tie. His pocket square was soft grey--the sky after the storm, compared to the laden rain cloud of the tie--and embroidered in silver thread with the Malfoy family crest. Every detail, from the side part in his platinum hair to the thin crease down the front of his slacks and the symmetry of how his shoes were tied, managed to look simultaneously precise and effortless. 

Hermione realized, belatedly, that her mouth was open.

“You look incredible.” She stalked him in a circle, swearing internally. There had to be a bad angle. There wasn’t. He looked over his shoulder at her, giving her a three-quarter profile view of sharp-but-appealing nose, the clean line of his jaw, a broad shoulder angling in toward a slim waist.

Draco smirked as her gaze continued to travel downward. “See something you like, Granger?”

“Yes--I mean, I didn’t realize you were going to show up looking like--I have  _ cat hair _ on my dress,” Hermione said. Her hands, almost of their own accord, smacked at the taffeta skirt.

He grabbed her wrists. “Stop it. Easy, Granger. Leave the poor dress alone before you kill it.” He held her arms apart and looked her up and down. Hermione thought he spent longer on the neckline than was strictly necessary, especially since Crookshanks would have deposited the worst of the hair in her lap. Eventually, he inclined his head a fraction, let go, and started walking toward Slughorn’s office.

She caught up with him. “You’re not going to say anything?”

“I’d let you know if I saw something wrong.”

Draco gave a dry laugh when they walked into Slughorn’s office. “Figures.” The room was decked out with colorful drapings that hung like a tent. A bulbous, golden lamp with an incongruous amount of filigree cast a ruddy glow, accented by the bright sparks of what appeared to be living fairies in cages suspended from the ceiling. The room was thick with body heat and already hazy with pipe smoke.

“Not so much a Christmas party, then. More of a circus show, with our excellent host playing ringleader.” Draco nodded at Hermione. “Which act does that make you?” Without waiting for an answer, he angled himself to squeeze through two clusters of guests, apparently eager to put as much distance between them as he could, as quickly as possible.

Hermione wasn’t surprised, although she couldn’t help feeling a twinge of disappointment. Harry had offered company and moral support at previous Slug Club events. Tonight, for the first time, she was really on her own.

For the first half hour, it stayed that way. Hermione nursed a Butterbeer (Slughorn was feeling festive enough to offer an open bar, at least) and watched the crowd. Small talk was never her strongest point, and the well-connected, social-climber type who made up a large part of Slughorn’s chosen crowd weren’t the most inclined to extend a welcoming arm to a Muggle-born student. They did, however, make an interesting study. 

The Carrow twins wore their usual blank, reptilian expressions, along with nearly identical antique lace dresses, one in black and one in white. They only smiled after whispering into the other’s ear. Melinda Bobbin preened under the gaze of Blaise Zabini. Hermione didn’t know how much a chain of apothecaries and the wealth of seven late stepfathers added up to, but probably enough to require an additional Gringotts vault or two. Cormac McLaggen, apparently self-conscious about being invited on the basis of his uncle’s reputation, was booming story after story about his own best Quidditch saves to anyone who came within arm’s reach. Around them all, Slughorn’s more senior guests hovered in twos and threes, now talking amongst themselves while directing pointed looks at a student, now inviting the student over for a brief conversation that looked, from the outside, like a test.

A wizard who looked to be in his mid to late twenties closed in on her. Something about his face looked overripe. He had large eyes with thick, fleshy eyelids and purplish bags underneath. His lips were fleshy, too, and his face looked uneven. One ear was set lower than the other, and his left eye drooped, apparently dragged down by the weight of a plump mole at the outer corner.

“Cygnus Rosier,” he said, with a smug look that suggested she ought to be impressed.

“Hermione Granger,” she said, holding out her hand.

He flourished a pristine handkerchief with a rather gaudy crest. “I don’t shake, darling, I’m not a dog. Besides, you can never be too careful, not with the riffraff they let scurry through the establishment nowadays. There was a time, or so I hear, when admittance to Hogwarts, or at least an invitation to a social function therein, meant something.”

“Charmed, I’m sure,” Hermione said. “You must be a friend of Professor Slughorn’s, then? I don’t remember meeting you before.”

“Oh, and my face is one you’d remember, is it?” Cygnus huffed. “Impertinent. That’s the fashion, isn’t it? Even among women of better breeding.”

“I wouldn’t know,” Hermione said. “I don’t pay much attention to matters of breeding. I’m not a dog.”

Cygnus chuckled. “Droll, darling. Forced, perhaps, a trifle, but they tell me the quickness is what matters in repartee and not the originality.”

If Ron were here, or if Harry were next to her and not being toured around as the main act on display, either one of them would blow air through their cheeks or say something sarcastic. As it was, she set her teeth into a smile so forcefully she could hear them click together. “You must be  _ terribly _ well-connected.”

He glowered. “Do you know a Rosier who isn’t, Miss--Greener, was it? Would that by any chance be an offshoot of the Greengrass family? I’ve heard there’s a coastal branch that never formally entered society.”

“It’s Granger,” Hermione said. “I suppose you could say I formally entered Wizarding society when I was eleven, when I was, formally, admitted to Hogwarts.”

The color was rising to his cheeks in vivid blotches, making his face look even more unbalanced. “Sweet Merlin, you don’t mean to suggest you’re--you’re not a--”

“Cyg, what a pleasure,” Draco said, clapping him on the shoulder. “When did you roll in? You should have sent an owl, I could have shown you around.”

Cygnus’s smile was tight, although his tone was expansive, even jovial. “And keep you from your studies? I’d never forgive myself. Is  _ this  _ a school chum of yours?” He gestured at Hermione. 

“I sit behind her in a few classes.”

Cygnus gave an unpleasant laugh. “The better to copy notes. Always sit behind, never in front like a know-it-all, that’s the advice they should give right off.”

Draco grinned. “They’d never catch you at the front of the class, would they? And as always, your talent for picking the best notes to copy is unmatched. Granger’s got a positively infuriating capacity to think circles around you. Rhetorically speaking, naturally.” The grin reminded Hermione of a certain look Crookshanks got when he was right behind an unsuspecting pigeon. “You’re staying a few days, I hope. Where are they keeping you? Not one of those drafty old towers. I have some modest leeway these days to make arrangements in the Slytherin dungeons. There’s plenty of room, and the Merfolk are in prime midwinter song.”

“Sadly, business compels me to keep my visit brief. I catch the last train out this evening.”

“What happened to your Slytherin cunning, Cyg? There must be some way you can pry yourself away from whatever dreariness you have to go back to. I insist.”

“You always do, Malfoy. My father always said no one flatters like Lucius, but he and I may have to disagree on that point. A silver tongue buys almost anything, doesn’t it, although rumors tell me it comes with its own price. I can’t tell you how it grieves me to disappoint you.”

“I can’t tell you how it pains me to miss your company, Cyg. Do at least send a Christmas card this year.”

“To the family home, or is your father no longer heading the Malfoys? Would it be preferable to send it directly to you, if he's, ah, indisposed?”

Draco’s eyes hardened. “Whichever is easiest for you, of course. I’d hate to burden you with another address to remember.”

Cygnus sniffed. He inclined his head to Malfoy, grimaced before offering a curt nod to Hermione, and headed toward a group of older wizards smoking pipes.

“Why did you do that?” Hermione murmured when the other wizard was out of earshot. 

“Thanks, Malfoy, what a gallant thing to do,” he muttered into his drink, gaze pointed at the fairies flitting in their cages.

“Sorry. Thanks,” she said. “And yet. Why?”

He still wasn’t looking at her, but he didn’t step away. “Granger, hazard a guess for me. How long have you and I been enemies, would you say?”

Hermione grimaced. “Second year? Maybe a little before then?”

“The Malfoys have been feuding with the Rosiers for the last fifty. Forgive me if I overlook a few classroom squabbles,” he said. 

“I punched you in the face.”

“I remember.” A smile stole over his face. He tried to hide it by taking a sip of his drink.

“What happened? I thought the old Pureblood clans would stick together most of the time.”

Draco scoffed. “Hardly. We’ve had plenty of time to let grudges mature. In this particular case, the Rosiers are... overzealous about blood status.”

“I beg your pardon.” Hermione snatched the pocket square out of his jacket. “‘Sanctimonia Vincet Semper.’ Purity always conquers. That’s your family motto.”

Draco rolled his eyes. “There’s purity, and then there’s inbreeding. You’ve spotted that the Malfoys are the best-looking of the Sacred Twenty-Eight.” He held his hand out for the pocket square, folded it neatly and replaced it. “Certain families are willing to accept a Half-Blood betrothal, as long as it doesn’t bring in any Muggles or--as long as the family tree stays fully magical. Others don’t. There are only so many times you can intermarry with the same select ‘approved’ families before the next generation begins to present problems. Not to mention the inevitability of certain witches and wizards finding themselves permanently alone because no suitable partner was born. Malfoys have, let’s say, accommodated arrangements that benefited the family, when occasion or a strong-willed couple demanded it. Rosiers don’t mix. At all. That’s why Cyg looks like a melted Troll. He comes sniffing around Hogwarts every year, my father says, hoping to catch some properly Pureblooded exchange student and trap her into an engagement before she catches on that he’s got as much brains as beauty.”

“The Malfoys are the tolerant ones in Pureblood society.”

“Compared to a few other families, yes.”

“I can’t listen to this sober.” Hermione plucked the drink out of his hand and drained it. She coughed.

“You’re supposed to sip that,” Draco said.

“Too late. Thanks for the drink,” Hermione said. “I’ll get the next round. More of the same?”

“‘More’ is stretching the definition of what I’ve had in the first place, but sure.”

Hermione weaved through the crowd. She plunked Malfoy’s glass on the bartender’s counter. “A refill of whatever gasoline you gave the blond over there, please,” she said. “And could you make a glass of whatever cocktail is its complete opposite for me?”

She found Draco lounging by one of several Christmas trees when she returned with drinks in hand. 

He whistled. “That is alarmingly pink. Sticking to a theme for the evening?”

Hermione held out the glass. “For you, actually. Unless you think it’s unbecoming for a Malfoy.”

“I wouldn’t be seen without one.” He took a sip. “Not bad. What is that, raspberry? Lingonberry?”

“I’m not sure. Haven’t tried it.”

“It’s tangy.” He licked a stripe of shocking pink from his upper lip, then went in for another taste. He looked on in amusement as Hermione wrinkled her nose at the fumes coming from the tumbler in her hand and took a tentative sip. “I wouldn’t have pegged you for a Blanton’s lover, especially after all that sputtering you did. Promise me at least that you’ll savor that glass.”

“Trade you.” She held it out. 

“It’s hardly worth me drinking it now. I’ve ruined my palate on this pink swill, everything’s going to taste like berries.” He took a sip of the amber liquor anyway, then chased it with a generous gulp of the pink drink.

“Did you want a daiquiri, too?”

“No.”

“Okay, because it looks like you’re having one,” Hermione said.

Draco made a face at her, took one last swig, and handed her the glass, which had about a third of its original contents. “You drank mine.”

“If that’s the rudest thing that happens to you at this party, I’m jealous.”

“You’d think the class of students who get hand-picked for a party would know how to behave,” Draco said. “Look over there. That guy, the one gnawing a hunk of bread out of his fist? That’s Eustace Fawley. His grandfather was Minister of Magic before Fudge. The Fawley’s estate is almost as large as my family’s, so I have no idea why he’s eating like he was raised in Azkaban.”

Hermione put a hand in front of her mouth. “He does look like he’s just escaped from somewhere, doesn’t he? It’s like that poor roll attacked him personally. Oh, maybe that’s it! Maybe his family’s been feuding for fifty years with the most prominent Wizarding baker family over a party where the buns ran out, and he’s not allowed to have any bread when he’s home over break.” 

Draco laughed. “That’s not the strangest basis I’ve heard for two families to stop speaking for a century or two. The things I could tell you about most of the people here.”

“That’s the best idea I’ve heard all night,” Hermione said. “What about them? The Carrow twins?”

Draco shivered. “I don’t know, they used to be snakes? They give me the creeps.”

“They’re sort of headed our direction.”

“Absolutely not. Move, Granger, we’re not dealing with them tonight.” He grabbed her wrist and pulled her past two tables heaped with canapes and a small holly bush hung with miniature straw puppets. “They like to speak in unison. I don’t know if they rehearse beforehand or not, but I had to sit with them at a function where they said every word together. It’s enough to give you nightmares.”

“Yikes. Okay, that girl next.”

Draco held up a finger. “Only if you tell me something about McLaggen.”

“Why would you think I know anything about McLaggen?”

“He wants to know  _ all  _ about you. Last year he was already outlining a painstakingly detailed plan of the ways he’d like to get to know you better, after Quidditch games. I thought he would have tried to cozy you up by now.”

“Ugh. Yes, he is constantly suggesting I come ‘let him teach me to fly’. You go first, though.”

Draco did, indeed, know secrets about everyone at the party, whether about the individual student or their family. Hermione made him laugh by making up corresponding secrets to further embellish the stories. 

She surprised him by knowing something herself about high-society bickering, even if Pureblood clan details were new information. Hermione’s parents were some of the wealthier members of her local community. She’d grown up attending enough country club events to know how to eat while balancing a glass and a plate, and how to be cordial to friends of her father’s who thought she remembered them because they met when she was three. 

Besides, she doubted any teenage girl at all survived Hogwarts without developing an acute diplomatic sensibility for who was speaking to, sleeping with, or shunning whom. Following the marriages and real or perceived slights among Pureblood families was hardly a puzzle to stump her.

Draco put one hand on the small of her back and leaned in, his lips brushing against her ear. “Are you having a good time?”

Damn it, she knew he was playing with her, she  _ knew  _ it, and her stupid ears were getting warm anyway. “It’s fine,” she said, trying to sound cool and casual.

“Hermione!” Harry elbowed through a small knot of girls and almost tripped over a House Elf carrying a tray full of champagne flutes. He staggered to catch his balance. Hermione put out a hand and he grabbed it, then straightened, still breathing hard.

“Malfoy,” he growled. “I should have known you’d try to get to her.”

“What are you talking about, Potter?” Draco said. 

Hermione kicked Draco in the ankle.

“Oh! Yes, of course, I’m shocked they’d let the likes of Granger in here,” Draco sneered. “The gall of it. Is there nothing Slughorn won’t stoop to? The entire Magical community should be ashamed.”

Harry narrowed his eyes. “Hermione’s ten times more talented than you are, Malfoy. The only one who should be ashamed is you.”

“Harry, my boy! There you are! Thought I’d lost you.” Slughorn burst past a Christmas tree, sending branches and ornaments swinging. “Sorry to interrupt, but there’s someone you simply must meet.” He wound a plump arm around Harry’s shoulders and pivoted him away. 

Harry looked helplessly over his shoulder at Hermione. She spread her hands in return.

“Laid that on a little thick, didn’t you?” she muttered to Draco.

“Apparently not,” he said. “Good God, no wonder you hang around me. Must be refreshing, not to have to break everything down into baby steps.”

“Harry’s smarter than you’d think,” Hermione protested. “You haven’t been through what I have with him. When you’re in real trouble--actual, life-threatening danger--he knows what to do. He keeps his head, and he knows how to make the right decision fast. He would have died first year, otherwise. All three of us would. Harry needs that adrenaline push to focus. That’s why he does well in exams, even though he barely studies most of the time. He crams.”

“I hear Potter’s praises often enough, Granger. I don’t need a lecture from you.” Draco set his drink on a passing House Elf’s tray. “I’m going to get some air.”

Hermione found Harry perched on a bench in a tiny alcove, mostly hidden by a fallen swath of tent fabric.

“Escaped Slughorn?”

“For the moment,” he said. “Did you know Sanguini is a real vampire?”

“Yes, that seems to be the case.”

“And you escaped Malfoy. Why did you even invite him? Ron told me you asked Malfoy to go, right in front of him.”

“You have to admit, I chose the option that would annoy Ron the most.”

“True enough, but blimey, Hermione, at what cost? You must be miserable. I’ll try to check in on you when I can, but for an old man, Slughorn’s got an impressive grip.”

“About that,” Hermione said. “Do you think, maybe, you came on a little strong just then? Malfoy wasn’t saying anything rude to me before you came at him.”

“He didn’t exactly hold back.”

“Right, but I have to wonder if he played into your expectations. Just a bit? Harry,” she said, drawing a deep breath that she hoped would give her an extra burst of courage. “Haven’t you been curious why he agreed to come with me at all?”

Harry rolled his eyes. “He wasn’t going to get in any other way, was he? I didn’t see anyone else lining up in the halls to ask him. He’s name-dropped his grandfather three times and Slughorn didn’t take the bait. Still spooked from getting too close to You-Know-Who back in the day. He doesn’t want to get too close to anyone else showing Dark potential.”

Hermione gave up. “Okay, look, you at least can’t have it both ways. You can’t suggest I get close to Draco and then attack him when you see us standing near each other. I need you to back down tonight, all right? Just let us have a good time.”

“Draco?” Harry frowned. “Since when do you call him Draco?”

A commotion on the other side of the tent hanging caught their attention.

“Get your hands off of me, you filthy Squib!”

Argus Filch, wild eyes gleeful and triumphant, had Draco Malfoy’s ear pinched hard between two grimy fingers. “Professor Slughorn, I discovered this one prowling around an upstairs corridor. Nighttime prowling’s out, ‘less you’ve got permission from the headmaster, and I don’t see a permission chit anywheres. He claims he was invited to your party, but then why don’t his name show up on the list, eh?”

Hermione’s heart sank. She’d invited him so late, after the guest cards were written. The list mentioned her name and “Guest.” Draco would never admit he was here with her. Not even if it meant getting dragged out on his ear. No one else would even know the depth of the slight, but it still felt like everyone was staring at her, not Malfoy. The way they gaped at her when she told them her parents were dentists, the way even Slughorn said, “Muggle-born, you know” in a way that sounded half like a particularly exotic catch, half like an apology. The shame of it crawled over her skin. If she were anyone else, this wouldn’t be an issue. 

Her head snapped up, eyes widening. Someone else. That was it. Hermione caught Harry’s eye, jutted her head slightly at Malfoy.  _ Please _ _,_ she thought,  _ let him get the hint. _

Harry looked at her quizzically. He pointed at Malfoy, keeping his finger low.

She nodded as frantically as she could without moving her head more than an inch. She mouthed words at him, praying that years of experience had taught him to lip-read her.

Harry shook his head in bewilderment, then stepped forward. “I invited him, Professor,” he said loudly.

Several people gasped.

“Eh?” Slughorn said.

“What?” said Malfoy.

Harry folded his arms. “Well. Dared him to show his face, is more like it. Didn’t think you’d have the guts to come around.”

Only Malfoy’s eyes were incredulous. He set his jaw and crossed his arms back at Harry, his body language relaxed and arrogant. “And miss a chance to see you make an ass of yourself, Potter? Never.” 

“He’d be listed as ‘Guest,’ Professor,” Hermione said, sidling up next to Slughorn. “That’s why Mr. Filch didn’t see his name.”

“Ah!” Professor Slughorn said. He waved a hand at Filch. “Quite all right then, Argus, just a misunderstanding. Could happen to anyone. Pour yourself a brandy then, before you go. The halls get drafty around Christmas, eh? If you catch my meaning.”

Filch looked disappointed not to have a student to haul off for immediate detention, but the promise of liquor evidently served as enough of a consolation prize. 

Hermione slipped away, pretending she was interested in inspecting the dessert table. Her stupid dress felt tight, and the label at her back was itchier than ever. 

Malfoy wandered over a minute later. He bent over, scrutinizing a platter heaped with bite-size twirls of sparkling candyfloss.

“Are you going to put something on a plate?” he murmured.

“In a minute,” Hermione said. She didn’t want to look at him. There was a hard lump at the bottom of her throat, and she was working on keeping it from turning into anything else. “I didn’t ask you to come over here.”

“You did ask me to come to a party with you.” He put a marshmallow stuffed with passionfruit curd onto a small plate. “Why did Potter say it was him?”

“I asked him to.” She wished he would look away. The crawling feeling was all over her. She ducked her head, letting her hair curtain her face. “You and I both know you’d rather be caught trying to gate-crash than admit you came here with me. Most of the others here would, too. There’s no need to rub it in my face.”

“How are you that sure? Maybe I’d rather admit you invited me than get thrown out on my ass.”

“I find that hard to believe.”

He was quiet for a moment. “We could, believably, both be interested in dessert. Yes?”

“Yes.”

“Then I’ll stay here. Let me get you a plate, though.” He reached past her and took one. “Do you like chocolate or fruit better?”

“It doesn’t matter. Chocolate, I guess. Those look nice.”

“Those have salt on them. Salt and sugar don’t belong anywhere near each other.” He put a few on the plate. “No accounting for some people’s taste. Try one of these fudge cakes too, though. And a marshmallow. Maybe a few, actually, they’re all different flavors.” 

In a few seconds, he’d heaped the small plate with truffles, peach-scented persipan, cocoa-dusted almonds, and various other sweets, a few of which were glowing with their own gentle light. He set the plate down next to her. Hermione eyed it distrustfully.

He rested his fingertips on her back. She twitched.

“You have your fingers right on a label that’s been itching all night.” She meant it as a request for him to move his hand, but instead he smiled a little and scratched, digging his nails to get the pressure through the wad of taffeta.

“Better?”

She nodded. “It was like having a mosquito trapped there. Draco, whatever you’re trying to do, you can just go. There’s no need.”

He took his hand away. “I can do that,” he said. “Or. If you wanted to, we could also agree that most people at this party are terrible and not worth talking to. In that case, we’d hide out wherever you disappeared earlier and I’ll bring you sweets until Potter accuses me of trying to poison you.”

“That actually sounds really nice. I’m so done dealing with anyone else here.”

Draco grabbed a handful more of the curd-filled marshmallows, then dropped them back and picked up the entire platter. “Me too. Screw them all. They don’t get dessert. Take your plate and go on ahead. I’ll be there in a minute.”

They spent the rest of the evening tucked behind the collapsed draping where Harry had hidden earlier, eating desserts and looking out the window. They almost got caught when they tried the glowing sweets, which made their faces and throats glow as the candy made its way down, but whoever was on the other side of the drape assumed it was fairy lights and moved on.

They decided to head out of the party before the crowd thinned too much, to keep from attracting too much attention. Hermione took a detour to thank Slughorn and give Harry a kiss on the cheek and a sympathetic pat on the arm as he steeled himself for the last few “quick chats” with Slughorn’s guests. She caught up with Draco in the hall.

It was cool and quiet after the stuffy, noisy party. Hermione sighed in relief and shook some of the last tension out of her arms. Draco, for a change, kept quiet as well, seeming to sense that she needed a few minutes to clear her head. 

At a certain point, Hermione brushed the back of his hand with her fingertips, letting them trail along his skin. She felt his fingers flex toward her, so she interlaced them with hers before either of them had a chance to change their mind. 

Draco looked down, then back at her with an expression of unmistakable tenderness.

“You’re holding my hand? That’s the best you’ve got, Granger?” 

He kissed her hair first, to get her to stop walking. 

The hall was empty. There was no one there to see them. Hermione couldn’t help noticing, though, that Draco didn’t bother to look both ways before leaning in to kiss her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the chapter I really wanted to write when I started this fic! I was watching HBP and got to this scene, and had the thought of, "Wow, what a crap year for this guy. What could have gone differently if he'd had even one person in his corner, and got to do something as simple as go to a party?" So I wrote yesterday's invitation chapter first, as lead-up, and then I was like, "You know what, no, I'm still not set up with the right kind of emotional complexity I need to get this scene where I want," and then...well, then I was about 30K in practically before I knew it. Not to mention that by then, I had so many more ideas to go...
> 
> The details about the Malfoys being more lax about blood status are true! (At least according to Harry Potter Wiki, and now, yours truly as well.) Lucius may have his own personal standards, but the Malfoy clan has a more blended background than you might expect. It's a big part of why I imagine Draco would move on from blood prejudice fairly quickly.


	14. Mersong

Mersong, in a way,  _ was  _ longing. There were notes in the Merfolk’s song outside the range of what humans could hear. The notes blended into harmonies that no human music could replicate, because no existing instruments could produce the notes, and because even if they could, how were the musicians supposed to understand the inhuman chords and countermelodies? This was music that you not only heard but felt, even if you didn’t realize the physical sensation was happening. 

The flowing melodies that reached the ear were sonorous and sad, sung by voices that balanced on the precise edge between yearning and hope. Listen long enough to Mersong, and you’d start weeping without knowing why. Listen longer, and the unheard reverberations built until you had visions, or sometimes phantom sensations of being touched by the person you wanted the most. Listen much longer than that, and you’d be overwhelmed by the urge to throw yourself into the water and swim toward the glorious sound. The windows in the Slytherin dorms were protected with fresh warding every season, to shut out the music when it reached a certain frequency in the students’ blood.

Draco was lying on his bed, his fingertips resting lightly on his chest, as if he could touch the ache. 

It had been an eventful day. The last official prefect duty of the term was helping students board the Hogwarts Express (except for Hannah Abbott, who was tasked with leading Term Break Orientation for students who would spend the holidays at the castle). It was always a hectic affair. There were frightened pets to chase down and reunite with similarly frightened owners. Some students would be crying over an exam they thought they’d failed, or looking frantically for a lost coat or bag. There were last-minute requests to change cars to sit with friends or avoid someone they’d fallen out with. The other prefects were there to help too, of course, but eventually even they boarded and it was just Draco and Granger and a few of the faculty, watching the train chug away. 

He and Granger had headed back to the Prefects Common Room, without needing to discuss it. They’d had enough time shepherding students around. Their friends ( _ her _ friends, really, not to put too fine a point on it) were already miles from the castle. They needed some time to themselves, to relax and recharge.

Draco had expected that there would be kissing, of course. What had surprised him was how soothing it felt. It wasn’t like other times, angry or adrenaline-fueled, grabbing at each other. She’d simply tipped her head back to look at him, a relaxed, dreamy smile on her face, and he’d just leaned in. Like it was easy. 

It had surprised him to feel so content with just that, taking their time, learning what the other liked and showing what they wanted. He could notice where her lips changed from the smooth outer part to the tender underside and feel the way she pushed against him, like she wanted to kiss through him.

He’d moved his hands around a little, but he hadn’t felt the need to rush things along. He didn’t want to interrupt the rhythm they already had. At one point, her hand had dropped down to his hip, and if she had moved her hand across his thigh to touch him, he would have wanted her to, but she hadn’t, and that was also all right, at least for now. They’d lost track of time, kissing and taking breaks to talk, and leaning in again.

He’d been waiting for a while now for his old feelings to flare up again. He’d changed a few habits, earlier in term. Granger was too good with logic. She could back him into corners during arguments too often. The only way he could have beaten her for good would have been to prove that the lessons his father had taught him ran deeper than logic, that magical versus non-magical was part of a natural order and that you’d feel the wrongness when the order was broken. Except that, like missing the final stair, there was only a startling empty sensation where he thought the wrongness would be.

Treating the new Muggle-born students fairly, for example, didn’t cost him much. It was awkward in the moment, but he caught himself wondering where people like Flint were finding the time to keep a running account of the bloodlines of hundreds of students. 

When it came to Granger--but what ever went the way he thought it would when it came to Granger? Kissing her felt--normal. More than normal. It felt good. It felt bloody amazing. It was also tremendously inconvenient, but that couldn’t be helped. 

Draco was good at separation. He knew about lines, the  _ shoulds  _ and  _ shouldn’ts  _ that marked safe pathways to follow. The world divided over and over again, and a wrong choice was more dangerous every time. Any choice that would have let him be with Granger should have been long since past, but she cut through impassable branching-off points like they didn’t exist. Or maybe she followed something else, hidden and haunting as the secret melodies of Mersong, and if she had found a way to do that, then maybe there was room for him, too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mermaid lore, including Sirens and Selkies, is one of my favorite aspects of mythical creatures in storytelling. I love constructing biological rationale for how people experience magic. The world is often so strange as it is that it feels natural that there would be evolutionary and physical reasons for certain kinds of magic.


	15. Mistletoe

Holding Draco’s hand in the halls was rapidly becoming one of Hermione’s favorite aspects of Christmas break. Hogwarts was virtually empty. Perhaps fifty students were spending the holidays in the castle, and most of them either hung out in House common rooms most of the time, or else were also wandering the emptier parts of the castle in pairs, looking for places to be alone. Everyone was used to seeing them roam the halls together, anyway. No one bothered to consider that prefect hall monitoring was over until next term, or look closely enough to see Hermione absently tracing her thumb over the ridges on the back of Draco’s hand.

Even so, Hermione could stand to find a bit more privacy. Students had an unspoken agreement to move along if they saw furtive movement in a shadowy corner. Professors had no such policy. Two days into break, and Hermione had already experienced a close call. Bad enough if McGonagall would have turned the wrong corner and caught Hermione with Draco’s hand up her shirt. Hermione didn’t even want to think about the possibility of encountering Snape.

So she was holding Draco’s hand, leading them gently toward this staircase or that hallway, following her best guess on where they were least likely to be disturbed.

If she hadn’t visited the Room of Requirement so many times for Dumbledore’s Army meetings, she would have thought she’d left the castle. Everything looked so green. The stone floors were covered in thick, mossy green rugs. Vines creeped over the walls. There were distinctive, round clusters of leaves and tendrils all over that added thicker cover, like big, leafy pom-poms. The pom-poms were big enough to hold a bird’s nest, although the Room was quiet and calm.

The columns stretching up to the lofty ceiling were marked with deep, crooked grooves, like the trunks of trees. Even the few pieces of furniture looked like they belonged outdoors. A deep bench with an iron frame and grey cushions, a giant urn with a sapling tree, sporting more of the pom-pom greenery, a rough wooden table.

“It looks like the greenhouse,” Hermione said.

“It’s all mistletoe,” Draco said, pointing at the pale berries dotting the leaves. He unknotted his tie with a flourish. “You’ve outdone yourself, Granger. I admit it, I’m flattered.”

“What makes you think I made the Room look like this?” Hermione teased. “Maybe the magic’s picking up on your boundless desire to make out with me.”

Draco only seemed to be half-listening. “The Room never looks like this for me.” His eyes scanned the room, hunting briefly for something.

She put a hand on his arm. “You okay?”

He shook his head, chasing a thought. “It’s almost Christmas and I’m standing next to a girl in a veritable forest of mistletoe. Why wouldn’t I be?”

“You said the Room--”

“Is full of mistletoe.” He put his hands on her shoulders. “Aren’t you going to kiss me?”

She did. It was good, but it wasn’t enough, even with him moving his hands in her hair. His mouth felt like the only real point of contact. She spread her hands along the breadth of his shoulders, but she was touching cloth. She wanted skin. He should be touching her, not the wool of her sweater or the cotton waistband of her skirt.

Start with the shoes pinching her feet. She dug her toes into the opposite heel to kick her shoes off without breaking the kiss. The rugs were cushiony and pleasantly cool under her bare feet. She could feel Draco smile against her mouth when he noticed the drop in height.

“Come sit with me,” he murmured. “I’m going to get a crick in my neck bending so far.”

He took her to the bench. The cushions were soft and deep, made for someone to curl up with a book and a cup of tea. Draco sat and tugged on her wrist, pulling her into his lap. He curved an arm around her waist and put his other hand on her neck, drawing her in.

She was the one who reached for the buttons of his shirt first. “Can I take this off?”

He raised his eyebrows. “Yes. Obviously. Yes.”

He helped with hers, too. She kissed him again, gently scratching his shoulders and back, enjoying the way his fingers tightened on her lower back when he felt what she was doing. _Be bold,_ she thought, and straddled him. His breathing quickened. His hands shifted lower, holding her hips in place as he strained up to grind against her.

One hand moved to her back, where his fingers found a clasp. Draco kissed her breastbone and continued up the side of her neck.

“Do you remember, after the thing with Myrtle?”

“Mm.”

“This is where you stopped me, before,” he said, his mouth against her throat. “Do you want to stop me now?”

“No.”

“Then tell me.”

“Don’t stop.”

It took two tries, but after an extra wiggle, the clasp came undone and Hermione felt the straps slip from her shoulders, and then the coolness of the air. When he reached for her again, she caught her breath. She’d thought the fabric of her bra was thin. She thought she could feel everything. New threads were running under her skin like arrows. Every time one of his fingers brushed a nipple, there was an answering flicker between her legs.

She scooted back a couple of inches and ran her hand over the stretched fabric of his trousers. He leaned his head back, eyes closed. Hermione grinned. She stroked him again, adding a small swirl of her wrist at the end. His fingers dug into her thigh. When Hermione’s fingers played with the zipper, his patience broke. He guided her down onto the grey fabric of the bench and almost tore her skirt off. He hooked his fingers into her underwear, pulled them down, tugged off the rest of his clothes, and crawled over her.

Maybe he was excited, maybe overconfident about his angle and what he was doing. The jab came harder and sharper than she’d expected, sending a stabbing pain between her legs and in the pit of her belly. Without thinking, she whipped a hand out and smacked him across the face.

He pulled back immediately, one hand on his cheek. “For Merlin’s sake, Granger, why always the face?”

Hermione scrambled into a sitting position. “Sorry! Oh my God, I’m so sorry. I wasn’t thinking.”

“It’s okay. Old habits die hard, apparently. Are you okay?”

“Yeah. It stung. I wasn’t expecting it to be like that.”

“Yeah, neither was I.” He caught her eye, and then he started laughing.

She smiled back, although she still felt red in the face. “I am sorry.”

“Stop it. It’s weird hearing you apologize to me. Come here.” He lowered himself onto her again and wiggled an arm underneath her. “You’re losing your touch, by the way. That was nowhere near as hard as last time.”

Hermione laughed a little into his shoulder. “Can we try it again? More carefully?”

“Yeah. I can move against you a little, first? Let you feel it?”

“Okay. And kiss me?”

He smiled. “Obviously.”

Hermione shifted herself a little, centering herself more underneath him. She put one hand on the back of his neck to pull him close to her. A moment later, she felt him press against her again. It was more of a sliding than a stabbing now, smooth and warm. He started slow, moving until he hit the spot that made her hips twitch, then double- and triple-checking. Then he leaned himself harder into her, rocking in that same spot.

She clenched her fingers, tugging the hair on the back of his head. “Keep doing that.” Her voice was shaky.

In response, he propped himself on one forearm and licked his thumb. When he touched her breast again, she shivered involuntarily. The wetness heightened the touch that much more, like running an electric wire through water. The current ran faster than thought--lips, nipple, navel, sex, back again, looping and redoubling on itself. She parted her legs a little wider.

He took it as an invitation and shifted position. She put a hand low on his back and pressed, beckoning. It still hurt when he entered her, but not as much, and not the same. There was an initial stinging at the entrance point and a deep, low ache inside, more pressure and fullness than pleasure, but not bad, either. He put his fingers to his mouth again and brought them lower this time, playing with different rhythms, watching her face to see which pattern was right. Now her full attention was concentrated between her legs, but before the sensation crept past the point where she could do anything but clutch his shoulders and ride the feeling, Hermione couldn’t help noticing the self-congratulatory smirk on his face.

When Hermione’s back relaxed and she could unclench her hands again, Draco dropped his other arm next to her shoulder. He bent his head, hiding his face in her neck. Hermione felt shaky and loose all over. She was starting to feel aware again of a throbbing tenderness, but she wanted to give him a turn. She kissed his hair. It didn’t take long. His movement got jerkier, his breath hitched, and then his whole body curled over her for a handful of heartbeats.

It felt strange and slippery when he pulled out. Hermione shuddered, and maybe Draco thought she’d had a sudden, disastrous change of heart. He looked at her wide-eyed until she reached for him, and then the relief that washed over him was palpable. He scooped her into his arms, cradling her so her back was supported by the back of the bench and her forehead leaned into the crook of his neck. His fingers trailed a slow, lazy path from the hair curling over her collarbone down to the curve of her hip.

His voice was low and musing. “What do you put in your hair?”

Hermione cuddled a little closer. “Conditioner? It has apricots in it, and shea butter.”

“It smells good.”

He fell asleep like that. Hermione didn’t. Her body was still humming. She was a little sore, not necessarily in a bad way, but she wanted to lie awake and figure out the new feelings.

She wriggled onto her back, keeping Draco’s arm wrapped over her, and looked up at the wall. The bunches of mistletoe seemed to have spread even farther and thicker than before. The stones were almost hidden under a blanket of green leaves and white berries. Except for the furniture, and the stone floor beneath the mossy-feeling ground, she and Draco could have been hidden inside a glade in a forest. Mistletoe meant kisses and Christmas, but its original significance was of peace and protection. It marked safe meeting ground for enemies. Hermione knew several Warding potions that used mistletoe to protect the entrances of a home. Strange, that the Room of Requirement would think that they needed this much.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More of a note on writing than HP canon, but: Writing smut/sex scenes/lemons/however you want to call it is a new experience for me. Not a radical thing to say. Plenty of people don't write fiction, full stop! BUT. I have studied writing, formally, for quite some time. I have my MFA in fiction. And in the four years I spent in my program, I don't remember any professor talking about the mechanics, craft, or art of writing about sex in a way that is faithful and vivid and compelling. I can understand that a literary-minded MFA fiction program would have reservations about teaching full-fledged, bodice-ripper smut, but I've read no shortage of contemporary literary fiction that has sex scenes. Sex is an important part of many intimate relationships, it's a meaningful expression of certain aspects of identity for many people, and it's taken a return to fanfic to realize how odd it is that it would be so absent from a program designed to develop my ability to tell stories.
> 
> Christmas Eve and Christmas Day chapters to come, and then I'll switch to the new posting schedule! Have a lovely weekend.


	16. Katie Bell

The morning of Christmas Eve, Draco checked in at the infirmary.

Madame Pomfrey reached for his hand automatically. “What did you do to it this time? Is it not healing well?”

“It's fine,” Draco said. “I have a stomach ache.” He twisted his mouth and clutched at his side.

“When did the pain start?”

“I don't know. It's just getting worse and worse.” He gritted his teeth.

Madame Pomfrey pursed her lips. “It's almost nine-thirty. We opened the doors two hours ago. Did the pain start before then, or after? What have you eaten today?”

“Nothing much. A glass of pumpkin juice. A few bites of toast. I could barely sit straight.”

“Who came here with you?”

“Why would anyone come with me?”

“I see.” Madame Pomfrey sighed. “Too much pain to sit straight, but walking alone to the Hospital Wing was manageable. Go ahead and take your shirt off. I'll take a look, but I'm guessing you had a few too many extra helpings last night. I know it's Christmas, but why they give children unlimited access to stuff themselves with treats is beyond me.”

Draco hissed through his teeth when she prodded his stomach, but opted not to moan. Better not oversell it.

Madame Pomfrey straightened. “You can put your shirt on. I don't hear anything out of the ordinary. Lie down for a while, and I'll have one of the nurses bring you a stomach-settling potion. If you think you can keep it down, that is.”

Draco wrinkled his brow, trying to look pale and pained. “I'll do my best to manage.”

“This too shall pass. Take it easy at lunch.” She gave the privacy curtain a practiced flick.

When Draco felt confident she was gone, he slipped out and headed for the next hall, where they kept the girls. Both genuine infirmary visits and the occasional faked stomachache had provided opportunities to learn the layout and the nurses’ working rhythm. No trouble at all for a cunning Slytherin to duck into the girls’ ward, tuck his feet up on a curtained bed, and listen in. 

He'd timed his visit well. A few minutes after he took his place, he heard Madame Pomfrey and one of the junior nurses enter.

“--think she can handle solids?” the junior nurse was saying. “It would be lovely to wake her with a bit of Christmas dinner.”

“No, keep her on clear fluids,” Madame Pomfrey said. “The poor girl doesn't know what day it is. She barely knows where she is. Let’s focus on getting her fed, and see if we can’t get her up and moving a bit. She’ll need a chair for a little while until she gets her strength back, but the sooner she’s moving her muscles, the better.”

“Should I alert Professor McGonagall?” 

“In a few hours, yes. She’ll want to come right down and ask questions. Katie’s young and strong, and lucky for her. That was some nasty business. Both the curse and our potions can have an effect on her memory, but if she can remember anything about who attacked her, it could help. I can’t say I’m entirely hopeful. We’ll take care of her first, so she’ll have more energy to speak with the Professor.”

There was a rustle of cloth and the metallic scrape as the curtain rings over Katie’s bed were pulled aside, a female voice mumbling something, and the nurse’s soothing tones.

Draco pressed his hands together to keep them from shaking and steepled them in front of his mouth. He was afraid his teeth were going to start chattering and betray his presence. She was awake. After all this time, she was awake, and McGonagall would question her in a matter of hours. 

He’d gone over the moment he’d cast the curse a thousand times in his mind, never satisfied that he had a clear conclusion. He’d crept up behind her the morning of the Hogsmeade trip. His detention alibi with McGonagall was airtight. But as he was pulling out his wand, her bag had slipped from her shoulder and she’d turned to pick it up. Had she seen him? 

“Up you get, love,” the nurse said. “There’s a good girl.”

“Steady,” Madame Pomfrey said. “Well done. There’s a chair just outside the door. Dorea will take you for a little stroll, won’t that be lovely? I’ll bring your potion round when you’re back, and we’ll try some toast in an hour if the broth stays down.”

Draco managed to wait until the footsteps faded away. Then he grabbed a bedpan and heaved.

He wasted the next hour pacing in his room, circling feverishly through his options. In the back of his mind, he’d thought (hoped?) she would be whisked away by her parents to convalesce as soon as she was able to travel. He’d been so buried under his other stress that he’d forgotten that she’d be questioned.

She would be. Soon. So what did that leave him with? 

He could try and slip back in and curse her again. Except that Bell would be monitored by nurses nonstop, and even if he caught Bell alone, he didn’t know if he could do it. Intention mattered, with Dark magic. Fear-fueled desperation might not be enough. Not to mention that he’d been the only other student that he knew of in the infirmary that morning, so Bell turning up cursed all over again might make people ask questions.

He could wait. She might not remember him at all, he reminded himself. Even Madame Pomfrey didn’t think Bell’s memory would hold up well, after the ordeal her mind and body had endured. There was a perfectly reasonable chance that questioning her would lead to nothing, and in another week Bell would be back in the Great Hall, smiling and chatting with her friends at the Gryffindor table--

Alongside Granger. And every time he looked at her across the Great Hall, he would also have to face an inescapable reminder that if Granger knew what he had done, she would hate him again. Even when Bell wasn’t around, every time Granger smiled at him, or kissed him, or put her chin on his shoulder to see what page he was on in whatever book she’d lent him, he’d know it was all a lie. 

And if Bell did remember him--he shuddered. Immediate expulsion. McGonagall might even snap his wand for good measure, to ensure he didn’t try anything on the train. He wouldn’t even get to tell Granger that he hadn’t had a choice. And when he got back to Malfoy Manor, Father and the Dark Lord would know he had failed. Draco was trying, very hard, not to follow the rest of the thought through to what would likely happen after that.

In the end, what tipped the balance was that if it was all going to be over in a few hours, he didn’t want to spend them alone.

Granger was in a fourth-floor corridor, in full swing scolding a small cluster of Gryffindors and Slytherins. Draco pinched her just above the elbow.

“Can this wait? I need a word.”

She frowned at him, but he could feel her instinctively shift her weight onto the foot closest to him, and he knew she would come with him. She bit her lip, then glared at the students before her.

“Don’t let me catch you fighting like this again. Tomorrow’s Christmas, for goodness’ sake. Give it a rest for a few days.” She rounded the corner with him and followed him down a staircase. “Well? What is it?”

“Not here. We need to be alone.”

“Okay?” She eyed him. The corners of her mouth kept lifting and lowering, as though she couldn’t decide whether to smile. Maybe she thought he was dragging her off to make out somewhere.

When it became clear that he was leading them to the greenhouse, she did smile, and reached for his hand. Draco gripped it tight and didn’t slow his pace. Her expression faltered again.

“Draco, you’re worrying me. What’s going on?”

He pushed the greenhouse door open, glanced to make sure no one else had followed them out, and ushered her inside. He hoisted himself onto a table, swinging his legs with nervous energy. 

“Are you going to talk to me?” she said.

He took a deep breath and forced himself to look up at her. “You’re my friend. Right?”

“Yes. At minimum, at this point, I would think.”

“What happens if things get bad?” His stomach was alive with panicky fluttering. He tried to concentrate on the grain of wood under his hands, to distract himself. 

She lowered herself onto a bench opposite him. “Like what?”

“Think.”

“I don’t want to play guessing games, Draco.”

“The others you were talking to just now,” he started slowly. “Did you notice anything about them? About most of the people staying over break?”

“What have you noticed?”

“Except for the Slytherins, they’re nearly all Muggle-born, or true Half-blood. They’ve got at least one Muggle parent. That’s why the fights are worse. There’s fewer proper--sorry. There’s fewer Pureblood people around, to smooth things over. I’m assuming your lot is afraid that you won’t be safe in homes that aren’t magically protected, now that--now that he’s back.”

“Or we’re protecting our parents,” Granger said quietly.

“And then there’s people like me.”

She looked at her hands. “I thought we were past blood status.”

“Granger, I’m trying to say I can’t go home, either.” This was it. Time to take the plunge. “You told me I could come to you, if I was in trouble.”

She nodded. “I did. I’m here.”

“My family--their loyalties haven’t changed.” He glanced at her. No shock on her face yet. “So. There are expectations. For me. I’ve been learning things. A little bit last year, but mostly over the summer. Spells they don’t teach in school. My father--”

“Your father’s been teaching you Dark Magic?” Granger interrupted. “He’s supposed to be in Azkaban! You’re telling me he’s at Malfoy Manor?”

“Yes, of course he is. It’s an open secret throughout the whole Ministry, Granger, whatever the papers say. The Aurors won’t risk an attack on Father at home. They’re still trying to figure out who’s on what side inside the Ministry. As long as he stays on the property, no one in the Ministry is going to do anything.”

“Okay.” Granger pushed her hair back from her face. “Okay. Yes. Please keep going.”

Draco looked at the ceiling. This was like being in the Vanishing Cabinet all over again, not knowing which move was wrong. “Father teaches me things. He would rather have had me stay home this year, and--train. Mother said that it would look wrong, if I didn’t come back here. It’s hard to say what will tip the balance, make the Aurors or the Resistance act.”

“The Resistance?”

“That’s what they call you,” Draco said. “Father gave in, but he came up with an idea. A test, to keep me sharp. It’s dangerous magic, very complicated.”

“That’s how you hurt your hand.”

“I messed up.” Draco automatically hid his hand behind the opposite wrist. 

“What happens if you don’t pass the test?”

“Nothing good.” 

“Can’t you refuse? You’re at Hogwarts now, not Malfoy Manor.”

Draco gave her a withering look. “My parents have more of a claim on me than any of the professors in this place. I’m their son, and they had their fingers in the Ministry long before there were any signs that  _ he  _ was coming back. Anytime they want me back, all they need to do is send an owl. All year, I’ve had to prove I’m training well enough for them to let me stay.”

“Sweet Morgana. I knew there was something going on, but I didn’t know it was this bad.” She stood up, starting to pace as she thought. “How dangerous is the magic, exactly? Is it something I could learn? Would they be able to tell, if you had help completing the test?”

“Why would you help me do that?”

Her eyes flashed. “Don’t underestimate me. Harry would have died without me, more than once, and following rules didn’t have anything to do with it. Don’t act like I don’t care about you. And don’t think I don’t understand the value of knowing a few of the other side’s spells, before the really serious part starts.”

“There’s more.” He gripped the table harder, digging his nails into the worn wood. “There was another test, that involved another person.”

She gaped. For a moment, for the first time, a flicker of fear crossed her face. “Draco. What have you done?”

“I cursed Katie Bell.”

Her brown eyes seemed to darken as it sank in that he was telling her the truth.

“Harry was right,” she said. “You tried to murder a student here.”

“No.”

“No? What do you call it?” She took a step toward him. “If you say ‘practice,’ or ‘training,’ I swear to you, Draco--”

“I didn’t know what else I could do!” he shouted. “It wasn’t supposed to go the way it did. I didn’t want to hurt her. I swear it. I had to prove I could get control, and I  _ did _ . Her friends started an argument, and ripped the package, and even then, the necklace only touched her because of a tiny hole in her glove that I had no way of knowing about. Who was I supposed to tell? What do you think would have happened if I’d walked into McGonagall’s office and said anything?”

Hermione put her hands over her face. “She would have expelled you. She wouldn’t have had a choice. She would have sent you home.”

“She woke up this morning. I heard Madame Pomfrey say McGonagall is going to question her. If anyone finds out it was me, I’m in a locked and guarded train car straight for Malfoy Manor, if not directly to Azkaban.”

“Then why tell me at all? What were you going to ask me to do? For Godric’s sake, she might not even remember it was you. I smelled how much bittersweet was in the potions they gave her. Something that potent can knock out almost anything. You could have waited, instead of telling me.”

“It was too risky.”

“It’s riskier this way,” Hermione snapped. “Now you’ve dragged me into it, and even if Katie doesn’t remember that you cursed her, I’ll still know.”

“Don’t you understand, Granger?” He wished she would look at him. “I’m not asking for your help. There’s nothing you can do. Either Bell will be able to tell them, or she won’t, but if she does, we probably won’t get to see each other on the same side again. If I’m gone, I don’t want McGonagall to be the one telling you why. I’m telling you because you matter to me.”

She stopped gesticulating and pacing. Her voice was quiet. “Be that as it may, Draco, this is serious. I should tell Professor McGonagall. You know I should.” She paused. “You said we were on the same side.”

“Yes.”

She was quiet for a long time. Draco was afraid to say anything. She was looking his way, finally, but her eyes were still dark with anger. He didn’t know what was the right thing to say, or even if there was anything else he could say. One wrong word, and maybe her inner scales would tip. She clenched her hands, worrying the fabric of her robe in her fists while she thought.

“Who are your friends here? Real friends, not just people you see around?”

Okay, so she was talking again. Talking was good. Talking that had anything to do with the present conversation would be preferable, but this seemed like a step in the right direction.

“Um,” he said. “Crabbe and Goyle, I suppose, although we haven’t spoken since last spring. Nott. Zabini, sometimes.” He swallowed against the scratchy feeling that made him want to cough. “You.”

“Yes. That’s what I thought.” Hermione made a little growl, deep in her throat. Draco wasn’t sure she even realized she did it. “I could burn that blasted Hat.”

Then she leapt up and flung open the door. Alarmed, Draco followed her. It was one thing to find himself expelled if he’d grossly misread Granger’s confidence in him. It was entirely another to find himself dropped at the Hogwarts Express platform with a one-way ticket because he was an accessory to the cremation of the Sorting Hat.

“Hey. Slow down. What are you doing?”

“We’re tearing this down. It starts with us.”

“Tearing what down? Where are we going?”

“Hufflepuff House.”

Just before they reached the kitchens, Hermione wheeled back on Draco, lips curled in a snarl.

“Let me make one thing perfectly clear,” she said. “This can never happen again. You cursed Katie in her  _ home _ _._ No student should feel like they have to watch their back here. Hogwarts should be the safest place on earth for us. You say you did it because you didn’t feel like you had a choice. So it’s on you to make sure no one else ever,  _ ever  _ feels like that again.” 

He’d expected her to make him earn her forgiveness, if it was going to be possible at all. He hadn’t anticipated how eager he’d feel when he heard what the condition was. 

“Granger, if you have a plan to make that happen, run it. I don’t even need to hear what it is. Tell me what to do, and I’ll do it, and if anyone doesn’t listen to you, I’ll find them and make them do it, too.”

“Good. In five minutes, remember that you said that.” She rapped a brisk pattern on one of the barrels stacked in a corridor by the kitchens. There was a long pause, and then the round lid swung open, revealing a seventh-year named Oliver Lufkin.

He frowned. “Hey, you’re not supposed to be here.”

“Hannah told me the password, earlier in term,” Hermione said. “She owed me a favor. I’m calling it in.”

Oliver’s gaze shifted over Hermione’s shoulder. “We don’t owe him any favors.”

“I’m with her,” Draco said.

“Is that true?”

“If he knows what’s good for him,” Hermione muttered. “Are you and the others planning on keeping tradition, tomorrow? Hannah told me.”

Oliver gave a tight smile. “Hannah’s a chatty one, isn’t she? Yes, whatever she’s told you, our House will celebrate Christmas at Hogwarts the way we always do.”

“Excellent. Plan for extra. Tell the House Elves, if you get a chance. I’ve got prefect business I need to take care of today. I’m not going to have much time.”

“What do you mean, plan for extra? Who do you plan on bringing here?”

“Everyone.”

Oliver gave Draco a skeptical look. “Even the Slytherins?”

“Especially the Slytherins,” Draco said. 

Draco followed Hermione back into the castle. She was still seething, muttering under her breath about House tribalism and Slytherin demonization.

“We’re eleven years old when we get here, it’s ridiculous,” she said. “Whose bloody idea was it to separate by type? If you’re going to do a mandatory personality assessment, at least assign housing in a way that encourages blend. But no, why do that when you can pit children against each other? What did they bloody think was going to happen?”

“What do the Hufflepuffs do for Christmas?”

She took the Grand Staircase two steps at a time. “Celebrate, of course. We’re a bit short on time right now, if you don't mind. We need to get you out of the way until we figure out what’s going on.” 

They crossed the Manticore Bridge, which led them toward the winding mahogany staircase to Gryffindor Tower.

“Let me make sure I understand, one more time,” Hermione said, climbing. “It was the day of the Hogsmeade trip. You were lurking around the castle, and you spotted her getting ready to go have a fun day out with her friends, and you cursed her.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Had you been targeting her before? Was it something about Katie specifically that made you want to put her under a life-threatening curse, or was she just in the wrong place at the wrong time?”

Neither option felt like it fit. Explaining any further, that he’d chosen a girl because it would make more sense for her to deliver a necklace, would unravel too much. He had never seen Granger this furious, even at him, so he chose his words with care. 

“I couldn’t do that again, even if no one ever found out. I wouldn’t be able to make that spell work again, after seeing what happened. I should never have done it in the first place, but I thought I didn’t have another option. It was a mistake. All I can tell you is that I was desperate.”

“Yes, so you said.” She sighed as they reached the landing. “Once is simpler than multiple times, I suppose. That’s about all there is to say for it.”

The Fat Lady folded her arms when she saw Draco.

“What’s he doing here?”

“Not today, Aoife. Dilligrout.”

“Lovely manners,” the Fat Lady huffed as the door swung open.

Hermione grabbed Draco’s wrist and dragged him up the stairs to the girls’ dormitory. “My roommates have all gone home. I don’t expect anyone will look for you here, at least not at first. There should be a broom under Ginny’s bed. Hers needs re-twigging, so she was loaning one from the school equipment room. I’ll come back as soon as I can. If you hear commotion or think they’re coming for you, you grab the broom, open the window, and get to Hagrid’s hut. Tell him I sent you. He won’t be happy about it, but he’ll let you hide there until I can figure out what to do next.”

Without further goodbye, she pointed at one of the beds and slammed the door behind her.

Draco sat on the edge of what he presumed was her bed. The other three beds in the suite were neatly made, bedside tables cleared except for a forgotten hair comb or water glass. Her table was stacked high with books, of course. There was a square packet of pills, and a photo of her with her parents, the image eerily frozen. 

It took over an hour before she returned, looking exhausted.

“It's done.”

“What do you mean?”

Hermione collapsed onto the bed. “I took care of it. I told the nurse I had a headache. When she went for a tonic for me, Katie and I were alone.” She took a shaky breath. When she spoke, her voice was even, despite the tremble in her wand hand. “I've been practicing memory charms all year, Draco. In case the worst happens. I'm very good.”

For the first time since he heard the news in the infirmary that morning, Draco felt safe. He didn’t ask her if she had found out if Katie remembered anything before performing the charm. He didn’t want to know, himself. 

She curled on her side and buried her face in her hands. The rage-fueled energy that had driven her all day had finally run out. 

“I don’t know if I did the right thing,” she said in a small voice. “I wish I could talk to my mom.”

Draco reached for her, but stopped himself. 

“I want to touch you, but maybe you’d rather I left you alone. I’ve caused you too much trouble already.”

“You can stay.”

He lay on his side facing her, put his arm around her, and rested his chin on top of her head.

“I don’t know if you did the right thing, either,” he said.

“Oh, great.”

“Just listen to me. Granger, what you did today--I can’t tell you if you were right or wrong, but you were so brave. You were brave, and daring, and you’ll tear this whole place down before you let it get in the way of what you believe in. You are everything the Sorting Hat could have wanted in a Gryffindor.” He could almost feel her listening. She was so still, she could be holding her breath. “You are brilliant. Any idiot knows that. But I think not everyone knows how indomitable you are. I’m sorry you had to go through so much today for my sake. But in a way, I’m glad I got to see it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shit's getting real, folks. 
> 
> Tomorrow's posting schedule will be (understandably, I hope) somewhat uncertain? I'm going to get the chapter set up now so all I need to do is log in and hit "post," but watching my little girl open presents and seeing extended family is going to be my main priority. Thanks for understanding, and Merry Christmas to those who celebrate it!


	17. A Very Dramione Christmas

If anyone had told Draco at the beginning of term that he’d wake up on Christmas morning in a nest of red and gold, a sleeping Granger curled into his side, he would have escorted them to St. Mungo’s himself. And yet here he was, legs tangled with hers, watching her breath fluttering a lock of hair in front of her face.

She was fast asleep, making a little whistling sound on every exhale. Draco could see her eyes flitting back and forth under her eyelids, and a thin line appeared between her eyebrows. Of course she’d make herself busy, even when she was dreaming.

He blew the strand of hair out of her face. She squeezed her eyes tighter shut and groaned. Her hand, curled between them, reached to touch his bare chest. She opened her eyes.

“Why’re you looking at me?” she mumbled.

“You snore.”

“Do not.” She rolled on her back and rubbed her eyes. “Don’t need to hear this kind of talk from you. ‘Mnot even up yet.”

“It’s Christmas.” He poked her ribs. “How can you think about sleeping?”

She wriggled away. “You are the worst.” She yawned, shook her head, and wiped the sleep out of her eyes. “Okay. I’m awake.”

“Good.” He wrapped an arm around her waist, pulled her close, and sank his lips into hers. “You’ve got morning breath,” he teased.

“So stop kissing me then.”

In response, he shifted to lie on top of her and pressed his mouth against hers again. Firm and languorous, switching between sucking gently on her top lip and nibbling the fuller bottom one. Her body was radiating warmth from a nights’ worth of snuggling under blankets. The tip of her tongue flicked against the center of his bottom lip. He opened his mouth to let her in, and she swirled her tongue over his before nipping his lip.

She kissed him under his jawline, soft lips rasping over a hint of overnight stubble. “That’s what I thought,” she murmured. “You love it.”

Draco had had about half an erection going when he woke up. He was rock hard now. There was no way she couldn’t tell.

Her kisses kept moving down. She sucked the tender skin at the base of his neck, and he grinded his hips against her without thinking.

“Good spot?” Now she was the one smirking at him. Her hands slid down his chest to his stomach.

Draco pulled her shirt over her head. Merlin, breasts were amazing. It didn’t seem possible that anything could be that soft. And they changed, depending on how a girl moved. Granger was lying on her back, so any hint of cleavage was gone, and instead the curve of her breast extended a little further, and sloped more gently. At the very center of her chest, there was a smooth bit of skin that would normally be hidden behind her cleavage. It was even softer than the rest of her, probably because it never got touched. Draco put his mouth on it.

They kissed again, leaning back into the pillows. Granger was starting to move her hips in response to his. Her nipples tightened under his palm. He reached down to take the rest of their clothes off.

“Wait,” she said, putting a hand on his chest again. “I didn’t get a chance to have a proper look at you, last time.”

She nudged him off of her and rolled over onto her knees. Her fingers trailed down his stomach, barely brushing his hip bones, following a diagonal line down the taut skin. His cock bobbed toward her hands of its own accord. Granger smiled. The tip of her tongue poked between her teeth for a second, and then she was pulling his boxers off.

She put her hand around the base and squeezed gently, testing his firmness. Draco shivered.

“What do you want me to do?” she said.

“Play with it.” He went to put a hand over hers to show her, but she was already stroking the length. Her thumb ran along the sensitive spot under the tip, where the flared part ended and the skin was thin and delicate. His toes curled.

She closed her hand tight around him again and gave him a few exploratory strokes up and down. “The skin slides.”

“Yeah.” He wasn’t really listening. It wasn’t possible to concentrate. She was finding a rhythm, mimicking the patterns of what they had done before, with added attention to the most sensitive skin at the tip. The jolts of pleasure were building. He needed a break, he realized. Either that or to push himself inside her and take what he needed, but he wanted to give both of them time. She should enjoy this.

He moved her hand away, much as it pained him, rolled back on top of her, kissed down her stomach, and pulled her underwear off.

“What are you doing?” she said.

“Getting out of slap range.”

He put his tongue on her and slid it over her clit. He’d only done this twice before, himself. Astoria was horrified at the idea of either of them putting their mouths on each other, so they hadn't. Padma had wanted it, and had told him what to do, but they’d only seen each other a couple of times.

Granger whimpered and tilted her hips a little. Draco tried another flick, and a longer stroke, and was rewarded with a soft moan. She pushed her knees up higher, opening herself more to him. Draco wiggled his arms into a more supportive position and settled in.

The rhythm of it was coming back to him. It was like a cross between making out with her, a few feet lower down, and catching the melting drips of an ice cream cone. He didn’t want to fry her out too fast, so he traced the tip of his tongue across the delicate folds or swirled it in a circle around her clit, letting his breath and the incidental touch of lip or tongue be all that touched it directly. Her hands clutched at the sheets.

She was so soft. He slid his tongue against her more firmly, exploring the taste. It reminded him a little bit of certain moments after a Quidditch match, the way skin and sweat and sharp grass and sun all intermingled into one complicated blend that he’d never be able to smell again without thinking of flying.

Finally, he gave in, sweeping his tongue over the spot where she needed it. She let out a groan that started all the way down in her throat. One hand flew to the back of his head, fingernails raking through his hair and grazing his scalp. His nose and mouth and chin were wet.

“Keep,” she said, and her fingers grasped his hair tighter, holding him against her. His dick was about to bore a hole into the mattress. The sight and smell and taste of her under him, with the pressure of her hand and the scrape of her nails above, were immersing him completely. He clamped his mouth down and counted in his head, keeping the rhythm steady until her hips kicked up once, hard, and her thighs started shaking.

He wiped his mouth, taking a second to catch his breath.

“How was that?”

“Gods.” Her chest was blotchy.

He climbed over her and positioned himself. “Can I?”

She nodded, and he finally let himself thrust into her. It was like sinking into a jet bath. The inside of her was still squeezing, aftershocks from her orgasm. Everything was warm and soft and wet, squeezing and sliding, rolling in waves over him.

She bridged her hips up. He was still thrusting deep inside her, but the base of his cock rubbed against her on the way out, and he could feel the head dragging against the front wall, hitting something soft and spongy. She was making little noises on every exhale, her breath racing faster, matching his pace. He lost it a couple strokes before she threw her head back again, mouth open.

He dropped on top of her. His back was damp with sweat. Not to mention that they were lying in what amounted to a small puddle.

“I got you twice,” he said, grinning at her.

“You sound pleased with yourself.”

“I could say the same about you.” He couldn’t get the smirk off his face. “Draco Malfoy, sex god.”

Granger laughed. “As if your head needed to get any bigger.”

Draco’s stomach rumbled. They’d both skipped dinner the night before, too exhausted and stressed to eat. “I’m starving. Is there somewhere I can clean up, and then do you want to go to the Great Hall?”

“Definitely. I’m famished. Here, give me my shirt and I’ll make sure the coast is clear. I’d rather not run into any of the first-years.”

Twenty minutes later, they were rinsed and dressed and walking into the Great Hall. For the first time, it sank in for Draco that the smattering of students were still all sitting at their respective tables. He’d assumed it was habit. But everyone would easily fit at one of the long tables, with room to spare. The Great Hall looked emptier than it really was, with little pockets of four or five students scattered through the banquet space.

A few people looked up when they walked in. Seamus Finnegan waved to Hermione from the Gryffindor table. Flint, Nott, and Millicent Bulstrode were at the Slytherin table, with a half dozen first- and second-years.

Draco hesitated. In Granger’s room, he’d had a fleeting image in his head of walking into the Great Hall together, and sitting with her, the two of them above caring about any curious looks. Now he couldn’t remember which table he’d imagined them joining. In his mind, the faces had been generic, unconnected to anyone he knew.

The longer they stood there, the more stares they’d attract.

Draco shifted. He wondered if Granger was about to grab his hand. He wasn’t sure whether he wanted her to or not.

Then, slowly, back straight, he walked away from her toward the Slytherin table. The hairs on the back of his neck prickled. He didn’t dare look at her until he was sitting with the others.

“Where were you last night?” asked Nott. “We needed a fourth for Rune Riddles, and we couldn’t find you anywhere. Did you even make it back to the dorms at all?”

“I was watching for Father Christmas,” Draco said. “I didn’t realize you needed a nursemaid to tuck you in.”

“All right, it’s Christmas, no need to be a git.”

“Are you free today at least, or are you sneaking off again?” Millicent said. “We were talking about maybe going skating later.”

“No, you were talking about that,” grumbled Flint. “Nonstop. I’ve told you, I’m not going out in the cold.”

“That’s not our only option,” Draco said.

A metallic clanging interrupted him. Granger was standing on a bench at the Hufflepuff table, bashing an empty metal platter with a slotted spoon.

“Could I have everyone’s attention, please?” she yelled.

Draco rubbed his forehead. “Brilliant, Granger. Subtle.”

“Oliver, Hannah, and I have an announcement we’d like to make.” She looked Draco’s way and inclined her head toward the Hufflepuffs, inviting him to join her. He gripped his goblet of orange juice as though it could anchor him to the table.

“The Hufflepuffs have opened their doors for an unprecedented, all-House Christmas celebration,” Granger continued. “The House Elves have graciously agreed to provide dinner, and once everyone arrives, we’ll...er.” She glanced nervously behind her at the faculty, who were seated as usual on their dais. “That is, when I say everyone--I’m so sorry, Professors, I didn’t think to ask if you were invited--”

Next to Draco, Millicent and Flint burst out laughing. Draco put a hand over his mouth, cringing. _Just sit down,_ he thought.

“Not at all,” Dumbledore said. “I believe I speak for us all when I say we are too sere and set in our ways to crawl through barrels. Any students who prefer the company of myself and my esteemed colleagues are, of course, welcome to join us for Christmas dinner and allow us to regale you with cherished reminiscences of the many years we’ve lived at Hogwarts.”

There were snickers coming from a few places in the room, even the Gryffindor table.

Hannah Abbott stood up next to Hermione and put an arm around her waist.

“Have you ever wondered why more Hufflepuffs stay at Hogwarts over Christmas than any other House? Look around! There are more of us here than the rest of you put together. And tonight, you won’t see any of us in the Great Hall. That’s because no one makes a Hogwarts Christmas feel like home better than the Puffs. And Hermione’s right. It shouldn’t just be your house that’s your family here. We’ll have someone outside to let people in at--what did we say, Ollie? Two or three? Anytime around then should be fine, I would think. We can take turns watching the door. Oh! That’s important. Don’t knock. We’ll send people out to let you in. Um, I think that’s it. Yeah.” She twisted the end of her braid, looked over at Hermione, and dropped back into her seat. A few seconds later, Hermione also climbed down from the bench and returned to the Gryffindor table (“What are you lot laughing about?” Draco heard her say).

Draco shook his head. “Granger, what do you think you’re bloody doing?”

“Seems about right for her,” Flint said. He stabbed half a sausage with his fork and tore it in half. “Bossy little Mudblood can’t make it a day without making a fool of herself.”

“Watch your mouth.” Draco looked Flint up and down and flung his napkin onto the table. “Like you have any better ideas of what to do. Or any of you, really.”

Millicent scowled. “I’ve been suggesting.”

“Okay, yes, Millicent, thank you, we know you want to skate. Did you plan to do that for the next eight hours, or am I going to end up in the Common Room by noon, thawing my dick back out and dealing nine hundred hands of Exploding Snap?” Draco took a sip of juice, giving himself a second to assess his audience. “Besides, this will give us a way to keep the kiddies out of our hair. They’ll find other first-years, instead of crawling over us.”

“Not worth it, not if we have to crash with the Hufflepuffs and Muggle-lovers,” said Flint.

“I might go,” Theo Nott said.

“Really?” said Millicent.

Theo poked the tip of his knife into an egg and watched the yolk run across the plate. “It’s got to be better than watching Snape mope his way through six flagons of mulled wine. It’s bloody dreary.”

“If you’re going and Draco’s going, then I’ll come,” said Millicent.

“I’m going to laugh in all of your faces when you come crawling back after half an hour,” said Flint.

“Suit yourself,” Draco said. He speared himself one more piece of French toast and stretched his arms overhead, cracking his knuckles. “Mill, I’ll skate with you, if you want. You want to give me half an hour and meet at the drawbridge?”

Flint leered, revealing the rubble that passed for his teeth. “It takes you half an hour to get your long johns on, Malfoy? They must be quite a sight.”

“Flint, you’re making me blush. You’re welcome to come help me into them, if you like.”

Draco weaved between the tables on his way out so he could be sure to pass Granger. As he’d hoped, he heard her footsteps behind him a few seconds after he left the Great Hall.

She tossed her hair. “You could have helped me out, back there.”

“I talked to my friends at the table, like a civilized person. You could have mentioned you were planning on standing on a table and doing a grand announcement. I could have told you that wouldn’t go over well.”

“But they should all want to come! It makes so much sense to have unity at Christmas, at the very least! You can’t tell me I’m not _right_.”

Draco laughed. “You are such a Gryffindor.” He patted her back. “All justice and no diplomacy.”

“Prat. But the Slytherins are coming?”

“Most of them, at least. Flint’s a tough sell.”

“I suppose I should count it a win even if most of them come.”

“Definitely. Listen, I promised Millicent Bulstrode I’d meet her and go skating before the Hufflepuffs make us cut paper snowflakes or whatever it is they do. But I wanted to give you something.”

She tucked her hair behind her ear. “You got me a present?”

Draco shrugged. “It’s nothing much. It’s probably stupid.”

“I got you something.”

“You did?”

“Not like a big thing.”

“I have to get mine. Meet me in five minutes?”

There was a little alcove tucked under the main staircase, so they met there. Granger had her bag looped over her shoulder, the fabric taut under the weight of its contents. She pulled out a large, rectangular package.

Draco hefted it in one hand. “I thought you said it wasn’t a big thing.”

“Ha ha.”

He knew before tearing the paper that it was a book. What else, really? He didn’t recognize the author or title. Another work of Muggle literature, then.

“Let me guess. A little light reading?”

Granger stuck her tongue out at him. “This one actually is. It’s all the best of Jeeves and Wooster. It’s about this rich socialite who’s an absolute child, and he has this incredible valet who helps him get out of all kinds of ridiculous trouble. It’s really funny.”

Draco opened it at random and skimmed a paragraph. “I’m not meant to draw any parallels, I hope?” he asked, mostly teasing.

“Oh, goodness, no. I thought you’d enjoy the sense of humor. Especially after Slughorn’s party. I’m excited to hear what you think.” She was leaning forward already. Her hands were practically twitching with eagerness to flip to the first page and plant the tome in his lap.

Draco smiled. “I’ll admit, your recommendations have been good so far.”

“Don’t encourage me. I’ve been trying to restrain myself to giving you one book at a time. This is cheating already.” She bit her lip. “Do you like it?”

“I do.”

Her face lit up. She darted forward and kissed him on the cheek. “I really am excited for you to read it. These stories had me in stitches, and it isn't something I could show Harry or Ron. They'd only make fun of me.”

“I made fun of you.”

“Well, yes. But you'll read it.”

“Open yours.” He handed her a much smaller, lighter package, a white box tied neatly with a green ribbon. “Be careful when you handle them.”

She opened the box. Inside was a pair of earrings, silvery rectangles with a cut-out design.

“They’re pretty,” she said. “Thanks for the warning, they look delicate.” She lifted one out, but flinched before she could put it to her ear. There was a fine cut on her thumb.

“They’re sharp,” she said. Then she pinched the bridge of her nose. “Draco Malfoy, are these potato peelers?”

Draco smirked. “I thought you’d recognize them anywhere.”

“Oh my God.” She smacked his arm. “You ridiculous little wise-ass. Where did you even get these?”

“Kreacher fetched them for me. I wanted to take a look at some Muggle things for myself,” Draco said. “They were more interesting than I expected. Delicate-looking, but sharp enough to cut. I thought they were pretty.” He fiddled with the knot of his tie.

“But you made them into earrings?”

“I like making things.” He hadn’t had much time for a while to get into a craft project, nothing major since fifth year. It had been fun. “I tried to do a good job. I’ve never done jewelry before.”

“Let’s see how they look.” Hermione lifted the earrings by the hook this time. “Now that I know the blade’s real. What do you think?”

“I think they suit you.”

She tilted her head this way and that, showing them off. “Then I’ll wear them. They’re clever. I like them, very much.” She kissed him. “You need to go get your skates and a sweater, and I promised my first-years we’d do cocoa and carols. I’ll see you at two-ish, then, for the party.”

One might think, upon seeing a group of 11- and 12-year-old witches and wizards tramping through the snow on Christmas Day, wrapped snug in their scarves, half red and half green, that they were a bunch of carolers, or at minimum happy children about to join some holiday festivities. But since when did Gryffindors and Slytherins spend any length of time together without sniping?

“Stop it, you mangy brats!” snapped Ursula Jasper, a Slytherin second-year. She brushed snow off her neck and shook flakes out of her jacket.

Two first-year Gryffindor boys sniggered. There were more snowballs behind their backs. They didn’t see the other Slytherin behind them, a first-year named Bridget Pucey, snapping icicles off a low-hanging tree branch and packing snow around the sharp points.

Draco pointed his wand. “Bridget! That’s an amazing idea, but drop it.”

“Dennis, Eoin, you should be ashamed of yourselves,” Granger said. “Is that how you represent House chivalry? Don’t make me start docking points.”

“We’re just having fun,” Eoin protested. “It’s not like I dropped flobberworms down her dress.”

“This party is supposed to be fun for everyone attending, not just you,” Granger said. She gritted her teeth. “You bloody lot are going to go socialize with students from other Houses on Christmas if I have to drag every one of you in by the ear.”

“I don’t see why we need to be involved,” Bridget said.

A sallow-looking boy named Hector grunted in agreement. “Let all the Half-breeds and Muggle-lovers shove into a cramped room. We could have the whole Great Hall to ourselves.”

“Hey!” Draco barked. He clapped his hands together sharply a few times. “Baby snakes! Knock it the hell off. Slytherins don’t start fights.” His tone rose at the end, prompting.

“We finish them,” one of the Slytherin first-years grumbled.

“Exactly. Leave the fight-starting to the Gryffindors.”

“Hey,” said Hermione.

Draco tipped his head at her. “Am I wrong, though?”

“No, but don’t push it.”

Fortunately, the inside of the Hufflepuff common room proved too interesting for the younger students to keep fighting. The round room managed to look sunny, even in the dead of winter. The low-angled light streaming through the circular windows gleamed on honey-colored wood and burnished copper sconces. Everything was tinted in butter and daffodil and goldenrod. Intricately knitted throw blankets draped over the backs of plump couches and armchairs, and a fire crackled, adding yet another source of warmth and golden light.

And the decorations! Even notoriously hard-working Hufflepuffs must have gotten started early. The low ceiling was hidden behind row after row of white tinsel, lights, and shimmering snowflakes. Every shelf was draped with garlands, some made with greenery, some with hundreds of ornaments fastened together. There were elegant glass jars filled with peppermints or more ornaments, candles tied with holly and mistletoe, gingerbread houses, and three tables groaning under the weight of ham, roasted turkey, bowls of stuffing, rolls, four kinds of potatoes, and every cookie or tart imaginable.

“Hermione!” Hannah rushed over and squeezed Granger in a hug. “Look how many people you got! Do you know if the Ravenclaws are coming?”

“No, I’m not sure.”

“That’s okay, they might come by closer to three, or later. It hardly matters when, the food’s ready and we’ve got plenty of time. Do you want to see the games? Oh, and I need to show you one table that’s off-limits for anyone under fifth year.”

“Absolutely,” Hermione said. She reached a hand out to Draco. “Do you want to take a look at the games? Or do you want to get a drink first?”

“Oh!” Hannah squeaked. “I’m so sorry! I got so caught up because Hermione and I talked about the plan for the party.”

“She talked about it with me first,” Draco said.

“Sorry, I sort of forgot you were still a prefect. But it’s wonderful that you’re here, and that you brought the Slytherins.”

Draco froze. “Who’s watching the door?”

He made it just in time to let Theo and Millicent in without incident. By the time he returned with them, most of the first- and second-years were already over at the game tables, playing Table Quidditch and shuffleboard. The Gryffindors and Slytherins were on opposite sides, but nothing looked like trouble.

Granger tapped him on the arm. “Hannah told me those barrels are the ones with the alcohol. She asked if we’d keep it discreet until after dinner. She said they clear the younger ones out for a while so we can have a more adult party.” She spotted Millicent approaching with a goblet in hand, and stiffened. “Millicent.”

“Granger. Why aren’t you with the Gryffindors?”

“The whole point is that we don’t spend the entire time sitting with just our House.”

Draco moved an inch closer to Granger and kept his tone light. “You and Nott wanted to play Rune Riddles last night, right? We’ve got four now.”

Millicent raised her eyebrows. “Are you joking?”

“What, you don’t think the two of you can beat us?” Draco said.

Hannah wanted in on the second round, and a few Hufflepuffs joined her. When the Ravenclaws arrived, they wanted at first to play as their own team, but everyone else protested it wouldn’t be fair.

“Not because you’re smarter than us,” Granger clarified. “Draco and I could wipe the floor with all of you, if we wanted. But we don’t know what kinds of inside jokes you have to fall back on.”

“You’re one to talk, Hermione,” Hannah said. “What was that last clue you gave Draco? ‘The whatsit--oh, dammit, they get in the pipes’?”

Granger flushed. “Anyone could have known I meant Gillywhelks.”

After everyone had eaten as many helpings as they wanted from dinner, and had a little while to let their bursting stomachs settle, Draco, Hannah, and Hermione rounded up anyone fourth-year and under to go outside. Draco had to admit the Hufflepuffs had a good system going. The kids were going to get rowdy again any minute. The Starlight Sledding Competition was open for anyone who felt like participating, although it skewed young. Second-years had been hyping it up for the newcomers all term. They were itching to get outside.

And after a flurry of coats and gloves and warming charms, the older students were left with Jello shots, smuggled Firewhiskey to spike their cider, and the games that went along with it. More than a few Hufflepuffs were smoking near the fireplace, where they could discreetly send most of the smoke up through the flues.

There was one unfortunate moment when a knock at the door signaled a possible latecomer, but when Oliver and Draco went to see, there was nothing but large footprints and the eye-watering smell of the vinegar shower the victim had suffered for knocking the wrong pattern. Draco wondered if Flint had decided to try to come after all, and been punished for it. Not much to do, though. Whoever it was was already gone. If it was Flint, Draco wouldn’t have anything convincing to say.

Soon, Draco found himself in a somewhat nerve-wracking game of Never Have I Ever. Millicent in particular seemed to eye him closely.

When it was her turn, she said, “Never have I ever spent the night in another House dormitory. With someone of the opposite sex.”

Draco took a long drink and met Millicent’s stare. “Padma Patil. Last year.”

Next to him, he felt Granger let out a breath.

Eventually, even a well-cast warming charm was bound to wear off, and the younger students trickled back in, stamping their feet and asking for hot apple cider. Hannah and Oliver dragged a few chairs back from the fire and threw a pile of cushions and pillows down near the hearth. First- and second-years filled plates, grabbed favorite games, and nestled down. They were still mostly split by house, Draco noticed, but that was only to be expected. He hoped Granger wasn’t disappointed that clusters of students kept to their own friends. None of them were really fighting anymore. From time to time, someone from one group would call over to a student in the next, reliving a good sled run or asking for a turn with one of the games.

A few first-year Gryffindors whispered to each other and tittered.

Bellamy Ungleswitch flicked his wand at a sprig of mistletoe hanging over the common room door. “Wingardium leviosa.”

The mistletoe drifted across the room to float over Draco and Hermione, accompanied by more giggles from the younger Gryffindors.

“Oh, Bellamy, don't,” said Hannah.

Draco looked at Granger. He thought she raised an eyebrow, just a tiny bit. He leaned back on his hands to inspect the floating mistletoe.

“Not a particularly impressive specimen, is it, Granger? Spindly little twig. Certainly not up to my standards to kiss you.”

“Nor mine,” Granger said. “You’d have to cover a wall with it.”

The liquor was warm in his stomach. “Tell you what, though. Because it’s Christmas.” He caught her hand, hooked a finger around her pointer, and kissed her on the knuckle. “Would you say that’s about right?”

She smiled. “I’ll take it.”

When the evening wound down, Draco and Hermione separated themselves from the crowd.

“You’ve never been to any of the other dorms,” he said.

“There’s never been a reason.”

“Do you want to come and sleep with me, tonight?”

The corners of her mouth lifted. “It does seem only fair, doesn’t it?” Her breath made little clouds in the air. “Let me grab my pills and pajamas, and a book. I’ll meet you at the staircase.”

Ten minutes later, Draco found himself leading Granger down the stairs to the Slytherin dorms. The lights were out. The only illumination came from the blue-green light shining through the window. For a second, Draco thought he saw a flicker of movement, but the shadows from the water often sent phantom ripples of light into the room.

There was a moment’s awkward dance as both of them went for the closest side of the bed. Draco stepped back. This situation wasn’t covered in the fussy etiquette books his parents made him read, but it seemed to him that the lady probably got her pick of sides of the bed.

Some kissing followed, then, and a bit more than kissing. Granger was feeling a little tender, her body still acclimating to new kinds of touch, but she liked his fingers, and took hold of him without needing to be prompted, and seemed to enjoy grinding with him to get him the rest of the way there.

After, she fluffed the pillow and opened her book. “Do you mind if I peek at a page or two?”

“I don’t see why not.” He yawned. “I don’t know how you aren’t already tired.”

“I am, but I always read a little before bed. It helps my brain stop spinning.”

“Figures.” Draco rolled onto his side, facing away from her, and the lamp. It was a little too bright to sleep. He pulled a corner of the blanket over his face to shut out some of the light.

A feminine snicker came from behind him. “Do you always hide under the blankets?”

“No. I usually go to sleep in the dark. Like a normal person.”

“I’ll just read a chapter. I’m tired, too. Then I’ll go to sleep.”

There was a quiet moment, and then Draco felt tentative fingers stroke through his hair, the backs of her nails tickling his scalp. A small hum of relaxation escaped his lips.

“That feels nice.”

Her fingers did a playful wiggle and resumed the soothing stroking. He could imagine her smiling at the page.

What felt like a moment later, his eyes snapped open. He was aware of the weight of another person behind him, but there was cloth in his face and for a second he was completely disoriented. Then his vision clicked back into focus. He was in bed, with Granger, and he’d fallen asleep deeply enough to be dreaming. He groaned and shifted position.

“One more chapter,” Granger murmured without looking up.

“It’s been--” He glanced at the clock. “An hour? How many chapters have you read?”

She instinctively pulled the book in closer to her chest.

“Give me that,” Draco said.

She rolled over onto her side, facing away and hugging her arms around the book. “Just one more chapter, I promise--aah!” She cut off in giggles as Draco started tickling her.

“Give it,” he said, wiggling his fingers between her ribs.

“Never!” She swatted his hand, twisting and laughing. “Stop it--cheater--you’ll never get it--no!”

He had it, flipped the dog-eared pages. “You read eight chapters?”

“It keeps ending on a cliffhanger!” Her hand darted, not fast enough. He held the book out of reach. He got up on his knees so he could tickle her with his free hand, scolding her playfully while she squirmed.

“I’m the cheater? ‘One more chapter, then I’m going to sleep.’” He dropped the book on the bedside table and rolled over onto her. “You’re a little liar. What am I supposed to do with you?”

She looked up at him through her lashes and bit her lip. “I’m sure you’ll come up with something.”

He smiled and kissed her. She responded enthusiastically. At first, he thought she might be taking her pants off again. Then he realized all of her writhing was scooting them toward the edge of the bed. And that he could only feel one of her arms wrapped around him.

She broke the kiss. “Aha!” The book was in her hand. She wriggled out from under his arm and flipped the covers over her head, wedging them tightly around her. Draco could hear a riffle of paper.

“You little minx.” He poked the blanket. There was a satisfied giggle, but the covers were too thick for him to tickle her. “You can’t even see what you’re reading.”

There was a muffled, “Lumos.”

Draco flopped on his back. “You grabbed your wand.” He sighed, then curled himself up against the blanket huddle. “At least let me under there with you. I’ll read over your shoulder.”

A moment of deliberation, and then the covers at her back loosened. Draco tucked himself against her and looped an arm around her waist. He yawned. It was toasty under the blankets. The trapped air smelled like soap and parchment.

“Turn the page when you’re ready. I’ll just skim it.”

Two chapters later, both of them were asleep. Her hand was on the book and her wand was tucked between pages, marking her place.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Big ole Christmas chapter! Thanks so much for coming with me this far! This is the last post on a 5x/week schedule, but there's lots of story to come. The plan now is to shift to weekly updates (we'll do Fic Fridays), starting this Friday. Now that they're together, how much will Draco confide in Hermione? How does one relationship, at the unlikeliest of times, change what might have happened to them both?
> 
> Specific chapter notes:  
> The crack about Flint's teeth is paraphrased from Brad Neely, whose voiceover, "Wizard People," is the most delightfully ridiculous way I've ever watched HP: Sorceror's Stone.
> 
> I originally meant for Hannah to be a throwaway character, a way to throw Draco and Hermione together more often, but in quintessential Hufflepuff fashion, she turned out to be so agreeable and helpful that I kept thinking of ways she'd be useful in moving the story forward. I've got a low-key, background arc in mind for her.


	18. Flying

Winter break was going by too fast. They were sleeping together every night, while it was still a small thing to slip by a few other students and have a room to themselves. Hermione realized she could get used to waking up in the morning with his arm flung over her and his head tucked into her shoulder. She wasn’t ready for that to end in a few days.

Not least because there was a good chance that once they were both awake, there would be time to try things out together. Not that the first few times they’d slept together hadn’t been good--they had--but it was getting easier for Hermione to understand and know how to ask for what she might like, even when that meant slowing him down. Empty rooms and empty schedules meant time to kiss and touch and ask questions. She could learn the way his breath caught when he was getting close, the way his fingers tightened on her when she was doing something exactly right. He knew not to just flip her up on top of him and thrust, but wait for her to find the right tilt of her hips to guide him in without wincing. The pleasure was getting quicker and easier to find. Hermione wanted more time to keep learning how to get it right.

She was reading in one of the armchairs by the fire in the library when she heard footsteps. Millicent Bulstrode dropped something on the table next to her with a metallic ping.

“This yours?”

Hermione looked. It was an industrial-strength hairpin.

“The thing is,” Millicent said. “Witches don’t use bobby pins. Ursula and Bridget don’t even know what this is. So why am I finding Muggle hairpins on the sink in the Slytherin girls’ bathroom?”

“Why assume it’s mine?”

Millicent laughed. “I’m not assuming anything. You’re not as quiet as you think you are. You’re lucky Marcus and Theo sleep like the dead.”

“What do you want?”

“A tidy bathroom, for starters. Maybe some peace and quiet when I’m trying to get some beauty rest. Have you ever tried having him put a hand over your mouth?” She stared into Hermione’s face, watching the color rise. 

“Oh, calm down, I heard you talking in the common room.” She sniffed. “But if you’re going to keep on fooling around with Malfoy, get better at cleaning up after yourself. And practice that face in the mirror.” She turned to leave.

“Wait a minute,” Hermione said. She picked up the bobby pin. “How did you know what this is, if ‘witches don’t use them’? You’re part of the Sacred Twenty-Eight.”

Millicent crossed her arms. “If I were you, Granger, I’d be more worried about the fact that I know who you’re sleeping with.”

“Are you planning on telling anyone?”

“I haven’t decided,” Millicent said. She sucked her teeth. “Do you think he likes you?”

“That’s hardly any of your business, is it?” Hermione said. 

“I could ask him myself.”

Hermione lifted her chin. “You could do whatever you like.” Then she lowered her voice. “Yes. I think he does.” 

“That’s all for the moment, then. Enjoy your afternoon.”

Hermione stared at the page after Millicent left, not seeing the words. The other witch clearly wanted to intimidate her, maybe threaten her with blackmail, but it didn’t make much sense. Hermione couldn’t imagine what Millicent thought she stood to gain. 

Talking to Draco might help. He knew the other witch better than Hermione did. And she was far too antsy to read anymore. 

It took longer to find him than she thought. She even checked the Room of Requirement. He’d admitted, reluctantly, that he used the Room to practice whatever test he was still working on for his father. He wouldn’t answer any of her questions about what he had to do. But when she passed the stretch of hallway, she was able to conjure the door herself. The Room wasn’t in use. After exhausting all the usual spots, Hermione finally caught Draco’s voice coming from a passageway near the entrance to the Clock Tower.

“--not hiding anything,” Draco snapped. “I just don’t want you nosing in!”

“And you think your skill is enough to protect you against the greatest Legilimens of our age?” Snape’s languid tone dripped with condescension. Hermione was used to hearing that tone directed at her, but Draco was usually Snape’s prized student.

“Let’s see how you fare, then,” Snape continued. There was the crackle of a spell. “Your Aunt Bellatrix has been teaching you, I presume?”

“Leave me alone.”

“I swore to protect you,” Snape hissed. “I made the Unbreakable Vow.”

“I don’t need your protection,” Draco shot back. “I was chosen for this. I won’t fail him.”

“You’re afraid, Draco. You attempt to conceal it, but it’s obvious. Let me assist you.”

“No.” Another sizzle in the air. “Stay out! I was chosen, not you. Leave me alone.”

“He will break you.” Snape’s voice was deadpan as ever, the words falling like a verdict. “You are not strong enough. If you will accept nothing else, let me teach you. You will practice with me once per week. Or I will intervene.”

Draco stormed into view a moment later. His eyes widened a little when he saw her and his pace faltered for a second, but he collected himself. He caught her by the elbow, steering her along with him.

“What was that about?” Hermione said.

“It’s not important. Come on. We’re going flying.”

“I can’t handle a broom,” Hermione said, hustling to keep up.

“I’m sure you’re fine. I’m not asking for a match, Granger, just a couple loops around the pitch.”

“No, Draco, stop. Wait.” She tugged his sleeve. “I’m not being modest. I can’t fly. I failed the class first year.”

“You can’t fly at all?”

“No. Come on, let’s go do something else.”

He pulled her in the direction of the Quidditch fields again. “You have to know how to do this. It’s easy, I promise. Once you get the hang of it, you’ll love it.”

“I don’t like heights.” She pulled herself out of his grip again. “Can you drop it?”

“No. What if you need to get somewhere else? You can’t always Apparate.” There were tense lines around his mouth. “Just for twenty minutes? Let me show you how to get a broom up and hover. Please.”

He relaxed considerably once they were outside, walking across the crunchy, frost-nipped grass to the equipment shed. Hermione didn’t share the feeling. She leaned back when Draco opened the door to the equipment shed, half expecting a broom to leap out at her.

He pulled one out and tossed it back and forth between his hands. “Cleansweep Eleven, for you? It’s probably the most boring broom in existence.”

“Gee, thanks.”

“Sorry, you wanted to ride a racing broom right off? You’re jumpy enough on the ground.” He frowned at the Cleansweep. “The Model Three has a wider seat, but it steers like a puffed-up Plimpy. Somehow, I don’t see you dealing well with a broom that won’t listen to you. This one’s slow, but responsive enough.” He held it out for her, and took a sleeker model for himself.

“What did Snape want with you?” Hermione said.

“Snape thinks he’s my keeper at Hogwarts. I think he’s full of it,” he said. “Don’t change the subject. Broom’s up.”

“I’m not great at that part.”

“Are you serious?” He shook his head. “Put it on the ground, then. We’ll start from the beginning.” He laid his in the grass, too, and held out his hand. “You just say, ‘Up!’”

His broom sprang into his hand. When Hermione tried, hers gave a feeble twitch but stayed on the ground. The experience was annoyingly similar to her first attempt, years ago.

“It doesn’t work.”

“You have to want it to come up. Speak with a little authority, Granger. Pretend you’re telling me off.”

She glared at him, then thrust her hand out and gave a commanding beckon with her fingers. “Up.”

To her surprise, and a little chagrin, the broom leapt into her hand.

“Why am I not surprised?” Draco drawled. “Okay, time to ride. Up you get. Remember to grip it firmly, so you don’t slide off. But not too tight. Cleansweeps have a tendency to accelerate if you apply too much pressure.”

“You sound like Slughorn,” Hermione complained. “There’s no proper instructions with any of this. It’s all bloody guesswork. ‘Speak with a little authority. Hold it tight, but don’t apply pressure.’” The broomstick was already beginning to buck under her hand. “How am I supposed to know what I’m doing? How tight do I hold the blasted thing?”

Draco was already on his broom, not even bothering to hold on. His arms were crossed, and he was clearly enjoying seeing her flustered. “Pretend you’re holding my dick.”

“Draco!”

He grinned. “If it worked so well to imagine you were telling me off, why not keep to the theme? Go on. The prospect of watching you ride is getting more interesting by the minute.”

“You are such a bloody prat. Smug little pointy-face condescending bastard.”

“Whenever you’re ready, Granger.”

Hermione curled her lip and gingerly hoisted her leg over the broomstick. For a second, she wobbled in mid-air. Then she lost her balance and flipped upside down with a shriek. She clutched at the broomstick, trying to clamber back on top.

Draco made a noise something like a cough and rubbed his upper lip with one finger.

“You weren’t kidding about being afraid of flying.”

“People aren’t supposed to be in the air!”

“Stop panicking,” he said. “It’ll right itself. They’re built that way. Just give it a second. It can’t get a read on your position if you’re squirming around.”

“I don’t have a second if I’m going to fall off!”

“You’re not going to fall off.” He hopped off his own broom and walked over beside hers. He held out his hands. “Here. I’ll make sure you don’t fall the entire three feet to the ground. You’re fine. I promise.”

Hermione forced herself to stay still. The broom hummed, then swiveled, righting her.

“See?” he said.

“Get that smirk off your face.”

He poked her. “You need to use your abs.”

Hermione’s heart was beating fast. Her feet were dangling in mid-air. “How do you keep from falling off?”

“Just hold on. Look, you can see the spellwork here.” He pointed at a fine engraving along the shaft of the broom. “It’ll keep level, unless you’re steering it up or down. It’s self-righting. There’s a second or so of anti-grav, so even if you slide, you’ve got that extra bit of time to grab hold again.”

“I just point it to steer it?” Her brain was whirling, trying to map what was happening onto something more reasonable. Riding a bike. She could handle that. That was intuitive too, just leaning one way or another to steer. If she could pretend she was three feet off the ground the whole time, she could shove the fear down. This was a weird, magic bike.

“Yeah, it’s simple.”

“How do I make it stop?”

“Just pull it up a bit.” Draco rolled his eyes. “It’s easier to explain when you’re up. Can we go?”

Hermione gripped the broomstick, trying unsuccessfully not to think about Draco’s dick, and tugged it upwards. In a series of unsteady bobs, she found that she was floating higher in the air.

“Not bad, Granger. Not at all. Look at you.” He glided into place next to her, beaming. “Try a big loop with me, so you can practice steering.”

After a lurching circuit around the Quidditch pitch, Hermione was ready to get down. She nudged the broom down a foot or two at a time, still petrified at the thought of hurtling toward a broken leg or worse. She was already beginning to get an idea of why Quidditch players had such defined stomach muscles. The constant minor adjustments for balance, even when she was only trying to keep level, were going to take their toll in sore muscles tomorrow. Hermione could only imagine how it would feel if you were diving and careening all over the place for hours.

“Don’t tell me you’re done already,” Draco said.

“I’ve made good progress.”

“But you haven’t had much fun yet. Do you want to try mine?”

Hermione made a face. 

“I’m serious. You can hop on behind me. I can show you how it feels once you know what you’re doing.”

Hermione wavered. She didn’t especially want to leave the steadiness of the ground, but she’d felt before like she was missing out on something. Harry and Ron, unlike certain slick-hair, rich-boy types she could name, didn’t pressure her when she said she didn’t want to do something that looked like more danger and trouble than it was worth. But if she was already out, maybe there was something to be said for finding out what all the fuss was about.

“Promise you won’t go too fast?”

“I’m trying to teach you, not traumatize you.”

“Okay.” She let him help her up and wrapped her arms around his waist.

As soon as Draco kicked off, Hermione could feel the difference. Whether it was the higher-quality broom, the rider, or both, the feeling was smoother and crisper, the two of them slicing through the air. As promised, he kept the speed to a moderate pace. Hermione realized she didn’t feel as panicky. Knowing that he was practiced enough to keep them from flipping upside down forty feet in the air helped a lot.

“You can try going a little faster, if you want.”

He looked over his shoulder at her. “I knew you wouldn’t be able to resist.” He leaned forward, urging the broom to accelerate. When he got to a sharper curve, he tilted the broom so Hermione could see the blurred branches of trees between her feet. She yelped, but it wasn’t entirely out of nervousness. There was a giddy feeling mixed into it, too.

“Don’t do anything crazy,” she yelled at Draco.

“Yeah, okay. I’m going to swoop, though.”

“Draco Malfoy, don’t you dare--”

He cupped his hand behind his ear. “What? Can’t hear you with all this wind. Better hold on, it’s swooping time!”

Hermione clamped her arms tighter around him and shrieked into his ear. Cold wind tingled on her cheeks. Her stomach lurched, and when Draco pulled up the broom there was a second of weightlessness, one perfect, pure moment where even if the broom wasn’t there, they’d still be flying. 

He leaned into a curve again, spiraling down in tighter and tighter coils, so that by the time they reached the ground they were both too dizzy to walk. Hermione rolled off as soon as ground seemed in comfortable reach and sprawled on the grass, shaky with adrenaline.

Draco collapsed next to her.

“What do you think?”

Hermione nudged over to put her head on his shoulder. “I’ve never been so in love with the ground in my entire life. I can’t believe you did that. Sweet Godric.”

“I took it too fast.” Draco propped himself up on one arm, his face serious. “Are you mad at me?”

“I didn’t say that. Give me five minutes to get my heart rate under control. And give me more warning next time before you pull a stunt like that again.”

Yes. She could get used to seeing him smile like that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part of the conversation between Draco and Snape is taken directly from the film adaptation, although the interaction overall doesn't go exactly as depicted in the movie.
> 
> (Calm before the storm? What?? Why would you even say that? Clearly everything is super great and fine.)


	19. Scritchles

There were more than a few places to sneak off to in the castle, of course. The best they’d found by the end of winter holiday was the Lower Observatory in the Astronomy Tower. Trees had mostly occluded the view (which was why the additional floors had been built), and the room now served as a storage space for various telescopes and star divination tools. No one used the Tower during the day, so it was a perfect hideout. 

Hermione was curled up in the window seat, reading. She’d brought tea this time, as well as a few packages wrapped in napkins. The House Elves who ran the kitchens were liberal over break. With fewer students to feed, they had more time to experiment with new recipes or reprise old favorites. They loaded Hermione up with whatever she could carry.

When Draco showed up, he wasted no time in throwing himself down on the seat, kicking his feet up against the wall and resting his head in her lap. Hermione continued to read her book. She was close to the end of an intense chapter. Besides, if he was going to flounce in like that demanding her attention, she had to make him wait at least a minute or two for acknowledgement.

“Well? What are you waiting for?”

“Hi to you, too.”

He tipped his head back, managing to look imperious even from a reclining position. “Are you going to do the thing or not?”

Hermione put a finger in her book. “The thing?”

“The thing I like. With my hair.”

“You like hair scritchles.” Hermione grinned. “Does big bad Malfoy want scritchle time?”

It really was impressive the way he could look down his nose at her, even from below. Something about the tilt of the chin. “Are you suggesting a Malfoy would back down because you give something delightful a ridiculous name?” He crossed one ankle over the other and burrowed himself harder against her. “Give me the scritchles, Granger, and put down your book. I want them done properly.”

“I bet you do.” She marked her place, set the book down, and wiggled her fingers under his head. 

He closed his eyes. “You are allowed to call me big bad Malfoy if you want, though.”

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” Hermione let her fingers scratch a little higher. She liked the spot where his hair was just long enough for her fingers to sink in to the first joint. “I’d imagine the people who want to call you big bad Malfoy are also the people who expect you to refuse all cuddles because you need to spend that time looking out a window at the rain. And smoking a cigarette.”

“What if it’s not raining?”

“It would be. You’d have to plan out when you can have sex based on the weather forecast.”

He snickered. “Can you imagine?”

She settled his head back onto her thigh and moved her fingers in tiny circles over his scalp. “I don’t know. You don’t come off especially cuddly most of the time, to people who don’t know you. A few months ago, I might have believed you’d rather pick a pose that makes you look good than stay close. I definitely would have hexed anyone who suggested I’d be caught dead giving you a scalp massage.”

“Terrible move. My hair is amazing.”

“Yeah, I know that now.”

He opened his eyes. “What happens when your friends come back?”

She smoothed his hair one last time and rested her hand on top of his head. “That’s a question. What are you thinking?”

“It feels weird to go back to keeping our distance. Especially since we're going to be on hall monitoring duty together all the time anyway.”

“That's true. But it doesn't feel weird to you to imagine going public with this?” Hermione bit her lip. “I've been trying to think how I'd even start the conversation to tell Harry. Ron still hasn't forgotten things you said second year. Neither of them is going to have an easy time with this.”

A light went out in Draco's face, and Hermione knew she'd said the wrong thing.

“You want this to be a secret,” he said. 

“That's not what I said.”

“No, it's fine. I know how to keep a secret.” He pushed himself up and slid down the bench.

“Why is it so important to you? You don’t act like you want to be openly dating. You move away from me as soon as anyone else is in sight.”

“No I don’t.”

“We’re hiding out from everyone else right now, and there’s only a few dozen other people in the castle. You expect me to believe you want to walk into the Great Hall holding my hand in front of the whole school?” Hermione said. 

“You’re the one blabbing on about House unity.”

“Don’t get me wrong, if you think you can look all your old friends in the face and not leave me stranded, you go ahead. This just seems like a way bigger step than I expected you to take.”

“Or a bigger one than you want me to take. You don’t want Potter and Weasley seeing you with me. Until--what? You wear them down bit by bit, or was your plan to make me more presentable for your Gryffindor friends? I don’t fancy the idea of being your shameful little habit.”

“I’m not ashamed to be seen with you.”

“You shouldn’t be. But they’ll treat you like you should.”

“I’m confused. Do you want me to tell my friends or not?”

“I want to know what you plan to do,” Draco said. “I’d like to know if I should expect to avoid you until eight every night.”

“What? No, of course not.” Hermione tilted her head. “Were you going to avoid me when other Slytherins are around?”

“I haven’t over break. For Merlin’s sake, I took the little ones to a bloody Hufflepuff party.” He paused, thinking. “I don’t know that I’d kiss you or anything in front of Blaise, or some of the others. But talking’s okay.”

“It does seem like a bit much to act like we’re not friends. If practically every prefect is willing to switch out so we’re together, I’d hope they assume we’re getting along somehow,” Hermione said. “So yes. Let’s go semipublic then, I suppose? We can find each other and talk or hang out a bit without worrying what other company’s around, but maybe hold off on making any grand announcements? I would still rather have a chance to tell Ron and Harry at the right moment, so they don’t make a scene. I do want them to know. I’m just not looking forward to the fallout.”

Draco frowned. “They love you,” he said. “They just hate me, which is fine. They don’t have to like me. Don’t work yourself up worrying about this.”

Hermione gave a brief smile. “I’ll try.”

There was a pause while they both thought. Then Draco said, “Honestly, most people around our year won’t even believe it if I was nice to you anyway. We could do whatever we wanted. People see what they want to see.”

Hermione smiled for real this time. “Especially with your definition of nice. The way you talk to me, we could flirt in front of half the castle, and most people would still think you’re being an ass.”

Draco grinned. “Is that a challenge?”

“You’re such a showoff.”

“That’s a yes. You’re in for it now, Granger. But first,” he said, eyeing her up and down, “My little sugar quill, go ahead and take off your shirt, and lock the door.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy New Year! 
> 
> I find myself getting a little self-conscious about posting short chapters. I love fics that post long, meaty updates, but I don't seem to have a 10K chapter in me. I'm trying to shake it off and remember that the whole point of any of this is for fun, on both sides of the story, so I should let myself off the hook.
> 
> My resolution last year, incidentally, was what led to this thing getting written in the first place! My 2018 resolution was to "do more of the things you enjoy, guilt-free," so I got rid of a LOT of my shyness about fanfic as guilty pleasure, or showing my fiction to an audience. Showing it to my BFF as a beta reader was a big step for me. Posting it here in December was another major deal. 
> 
> I've got a whole unwieldy list of plans and goals for 2019, nothing as pithy as last year, but I'd like to keep up with that intention of making space in my life for things that bring me joy, as well. (Feel free to share what you're doing--I'm clearly a resolution geek and planner lover, and it's fun to hear what other people are up to.)


	20. Beginning of Term

Hermione hadn’t realized how much she’d missed Harry and Ron over break until they came back. She bounced up and down on her tiptoes when the Hogwarts Express chugged into the platform, too excited to keep still. When they stepped out, she threw herself around their necks and hugged them both to her, feeling like she hadn’t seen them for months, instead of a few weeks. Now that the Gryffindor Common Room was back to its usual bustle of noise and activity, there was a part of her that could fully relax again.

“What happened over break? Tell me everything,” she said that night, curled up in a wing armchair by the fire.

“Lupin filled us in on what the Order is up to,” Harry said. “They’re spread thin. There’s already so many Death Eaters infiltrating the Ministry, it’s hard to know who to trust--you knew this?”

Hermione realized she was nodding along. “I thought we’d talked about that already.”

“I must have missed that conversation,” Harry said. “Anyway, they know Voldemort is hiding out somewhere, gathering his forces. The Order is working on tracking which former Death Eaters are likely to return to him, and where they’d set up headquarters. Lupin said they’ve got it narrowed down to a few possibilities.”

Ron tossed another log onto the fire and settled himself back into his seat. “If I were them, I’d hunker down in one of the old Pureblood estates. Some of those old castles are protected with almost as much ancient Warding as Hogwarts.”

Harry’s eyes flashed. “Like Malfoy Manor.”

Hermione’s stomach twisted. Apparently Christmas break hadn’t done anything to distract Harry from his animosity and obsession. 

“Give it a rest, mate,” Ron said. “You heard Lupin. He told Harry to give up on tracking Malfoy. We don’t have anything conclusive, and the Order’s got enough to figure out without adding Draco Malfoy to the list.”

“I seem to remember saying something like that last term,” Hermione said.

“I’m going to ask Dobby to help me,” Harry said. “We need more eyes on him. We’ll catch him, sooner or later.”

“See what you missed?” Ron muttered to Hermione.

“There’s more we should talk about,” Harry said. “Today, when Dumbledore called me into his office? He showed me one of Slughorn’s memories. When he was seventeen, Tom Riddle came asking Slughorn about a Horcrux.”

Ron’s face went white.

For once, Hermione couldn’t place the term. “What’s that?”

“Whatever it is, it’s dark,” Harry said. “Even Dumbledore didn’t want to go into detail about it.”

“I said it once, at home,” Ron said. “Just said the word, mind you. Can’t even remember where I heard it. Mum washed my mouth out with soap.”

“It sounds like a swear word,” said Hermione.

“It’s not just that,” said Ron. “You’re right, Harry, that’s bad stuff. There’s a reason they only teach Defense Against the Dark Arts, and not the actual article. The further you get into Dark magic--it can change you, just knowing the spells.”

“Do you know what a Horcrux is?” Harry asked.

Ron flinched at the word, and shook his head. “My mum and dad said even knowing too much about what Dark magic can do isn’t healthy.” He took a deep breath, looking glum. “The worst of the Dark spells hurt the caster, too. They rot your soul. That’s all I know.”

“Great,” Harry said.

“What do you mean, rot your soul?” Hermione said.

“Isn’t that bad enough?” asked Ron.

“I mean, it sounds horrifying, but what does that even mean?” Hermione said. “I must have read half the thauma-theological texts in the library looking for information about souls. None of the theories sound any clearer than Muggle beliefs.”

Harry sighed. “You can’t pin everything down and study it, Hermione.”

“You should be able to if they’re going to list soul-rot like it’s a side effect!”

“One thing’s for sure,” Harry said. “We’ve got our work cut out for us this term. Dumbledore didn’t have any advice for how I’m supposed to get Slughorn’s real memory. I’m going to sleep on it and see if I have any idea where to start in the morning.”

Ron hung back in the Common Room after Harry went to bed.

“I can’t believe you didn’t come have Christmas with us,” he said. “Mum asked after you probably a thousand times.”

Hermione grinned. It was impossible not to like Molly Weasley. “Did she get my thank-you owl? The sweater fits perfectly. She even stitched an H into it this year.”

“When it was just you and Ginny, she could keep the girls’ sweaters straight. Now that she was knitting one for Fleur as well, she said it got too pesky to keep all the wool sorted,” Ron said. He still looked troubled. He leaned his elbows heavily on his knees, shoulders hunching. “I know we had that stupid row over Slughorn and all that. I didn’t think you were cross enough not to come at all.”

“It wasn’t that,” Hermione said. “The Burrow seemed so full already--”

“We would’ve made room for you.”

“I know.” Hermione cast for the right words. “It seemed, maybe, better to leave Christmas at the Burrow for your family. You’ve got all the rest of the time to catch up with friends.”

“Harry came.”

“With the way things are going with Harry and Ginny, your mum may feel like he’s on the way to becoming family. Not to mention it’s a bit different for him. She’s taken care of him since his first time at Platform 9 ¾. Anyway, I had things I wanted to do here.”

“Like what? Harry didn’t give you much of a chance to talk about your break. What’s keeping you so busy?”

Hermione crossed her hands in her lap. “Oh. Reading up. You know how it is. And I threw an inter-House Christmas party, with Hannah and--and the rest of the Hufflepuffs,” she finished with a twinge of guilt.

“That’s not a bad idea,” Ron said.

“We’ve spent too long concentrating our friendships in our own Houses. It’s hard to think of anyone who’s got more than a token Ravenclaw or Hufflepuff friend. I can’t think of anyone else in Gryffindor who’s got a Slytherin friend, either.”

“That’s because Slytherin’s full of a bunch of underhanded wankers.”

“That can’t be true,” Hermione said. “You know that.”

“Name a decent one.”

“That’s just it, though,” Hermione said. “If I did, you wouldn’t believe me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not here for Ron bashing. I know it's fairly common in Dramione shipping to make Ron out to be a real jerk or brute, but I don't really see it. TBH, all three of the Golden Trio have their pig-headed moments sometimes, but that's another talk for another day.
> 
> My feeling is, vilifying Ron just makes it seem like you have to do all this work to make him a bad fit for Hermione romantically, whereas I think the flaws are there in the values, expectations, and strengths/weaknesses I think they each bring to a partnership. As friends, though? There's so much good where his stronger emotional intuition meets her logic and drive. I think Draco's a better match for her, but she needs someone like Ron in her life, too, so you won't see me spending a ton of time focusing on everything that could run sour between them.
> 
> As for the boys and Draco, well, that's another matter entirely...


	21. Birds

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't usually do this, but I'm going to go ahead and suggest you line up "Malfoy's Mission" from the HBP soundtrack, if you like. I listened to it on loop while writing, and if you enjoy listening and reading together, it's the clear fit.

The heavy cloth draping that covered the Vanishing Cabinet whooshed as it tumbled into a pile at Draco’s feet. The wooden machine loomed over him. No matter how many times he came here, or how much progress he knew he’d made, the sight of it always sent a whine of fear through him.

The dimensions of the Vanishing Cabinet were wrong. The slant of the roof, the tight, stingy point at the back, the narrowness and the lofty height didn’t seem designed with human passengers in mind. It was the wrong shape for an object meant to shelter, to protect its owner from harm.

Draco wasn’t alone, this time, in a way. His two companions twittered in their wrought iron cage. The birds came to him via an owl delivery from his mother, although Draco could feel his father’s presence behind the words in the message as well.

“Draco: As you dedicate yourself to your tests, may these birds provide companionship and inspiration. I look forward to word of your continued success, and hope for a visit soon. Your devoted Mother.”

Don’t make the Dark Lord question our family’s devotion, she seemed to whisper to him. Draco wondered if Filch or whoever tended the Owlery was bright or observant enough to notice that this was the only care package his family had sent him this year.

He touched the wood, frowning at a dark water stain on the door to make sure it hadn't spread any further. He knew certain panels of the Cabinet the way he knew his own body. All the hours spent fussing over it, fiddling with finicky gears, staying in the Room of Requirement long into the night to make sure the air wasn’t too cold, that the roof didn’t leak, that no rats or insects came crawling out to gnaw at the wood. He’d anticipated that spending Christmas break at the castle would involve a few overnights spent in the Room. That was before Granger changed his plans. It was only a handful of days into the new term, and Draco already felt the difference, even though there were hundreds more people filling the castle with chatter and busy movement. His roommates had settled back into the dorms, but Draco was alone with his thoughts at night again. The heavy curtains around the bed sealed him into his own world. It took longer to fall asleep.

Draco unhooked the door of the birdcage. One of the birds was pale gold, almost white. The other was jet black. The black one was more daring and feisty. It pecked at Draco’s fingers when he tried to catch it, and its tiny claws pricked his hand. The gold one was more trusting. Affectionate, even. It nuzzled a cheek against his thumb and let him stroke the downy feathers on its chest. When he took it into his hand now, it didn’t struggle. Draco could feel the rapid heartbeat, thrumming so even and quick he couldn’t pick out individual beats. The bird was light in his hands. When he set it on the floor of the Cabinet, it hopped out of his hand with an inquisitive expression in its black eyes.

Draco shut the door. There was a faint rustle inside. He closed his eyes, frowning. The wand movements were exquisitely sensitive. Even for stationary objects, a minute imperfection in the final point, or a hairline error in timing between the incantation and the wandwork, magnified over the course of the journey between Cabinets. He was trying to send something alive and moving.

“Harmonia nectere passus,” he whispered, his voice harsh with concentration. If he were a master craftsman, with the appropriate tools and spells at hand, he wouldn’t need to be so precise. No one had been able to give him a complete set of instructions. In the last four months, he’d effectively reinvented the Vanishing Cabinet, guessing and failing and trying new combinations of spells over and over in an attempt to make it work.

A fleck of pale gold caught his eye. One of the bird’s feathers was on the edge of his sleeve. He pinched it between two fingers. So fine. He couldn’t even feel it. The skin on his fingers was too roughened to register the gossamer filaments. If he closed his eyes, he couldn’t tell if it was there. 

He opened the door. Empty. Draco could picture the Cabinet in Borgin & Burkes. He could almost hear the bird singing, the sweet sound incongruous in Knockturn Alley.

What if it didn’t come back?

Draco’s mission was clear. Repair the Cabinet, prove his skill, yes, but then open the door. If the bird returned to him, it was time to send an owl to Malfoy Manor with the secret invitation hidden in the message.  _ I miss you.  _ His parents would come. The plan, they told him, was for the Malfoys to govern the school. They would honor the Slytherins, banish the dirty blood, join forces with the other Houses who agreed to stay and restore Hogwarts to glory.

If his work still wasn’t ready, then he had more time here, in the Hogwarts he’d always known. The place that awaited him at the long table in Malfoy Manor would wait a little longer yet. He didn’t know how long he could extend that time before he’d run out.

What if, maybe, the shopkeeper at Borgin & Burkes had left the door ajar, and the bird simply flew away? No one would think anything of it. The bird was curious and quick. A flutter, a few beats of its wings, and it would skim past Hands of Glory and cursed objects, a streak of gold ascending through the grey sky. 

Draco put a hand on the door and pointed his wand. He whispered the incantation again. The workings jammed so often. Whoever wrote the elegant spellwork behind the Vanishing Cabinet was a true master. The words must flow like song. Draco’s best efforts were halting, jerky. More often than not, it took multiple attempts for him to complete a passage.

Somehow, he hadn’t prepared himself for what he might find on the other side of the door.

“No.”

The bird was so much smaller, now that it was still. Its wings folded across its back, feathers hardly ruffled. Its face lay against the dark wood. 

Such a little thing. 

Draco picked it up. He closed his eyes, listening to the flutter of the black one, still in the cage. He held the gold bird loosely, feathers just brushing his skin, but he couldn’t pretend it wasn’t there. After a while, its wings stiffened, and he couldn’t spread them anymore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Any of us intrigued by Draco Malfoy's story love the bathroom scene, but this scene is my particular favorite. I love the direction, the lighting, the exquisite *completely nonverbal* acting work from Tom Felton, the symbolism. Just--wow. What a breathtaking coalescence in, what, a 2:30 scene? If that?
> 
> What surprised me was that neither my best friend nor husband made the connection between the black and gold birds and Harry and Draco when they watched the film version of this. Draco's role as Harry's foil throughout this series, the one who has so many similar talents, even similar personality tendencies, and the thinness of the line between being chosen and being doomed, comes through for me in so much richness and nuance when I watch (and re-watch, over and over as I wrote this chapter) the film portrayal of a moment when the true stakes become so much clearer to him than they ever were before.
> 
> It was a special challenge for me to recreate with only words a moment in film I love so much in particular because there are no words at all. Process-wise, I watched two or three times before starting to write, and then re-watched five or ten seconds at a time as I went, because I wanted to hug so tightly to the existing material. Writing is naturally such a more time-consuming process than watching or reading, so an unexpected delight of working on this chapter was having time to probe into what caught me so much about moments that only last a few seconds (Why does he concentrate so hard on this tiny feather on his sleeve? What's going through his mind in the moment he sees that a piece of this bird -- and maybe everything it represents -- is still there, connected to him?). 
> 
> If I can say so without sounding utterly presumptuous, I hope this chapter opens up an additional detail or perspective for you, too.


	22. Talk

The first week of term was always exciting, filled with promise. Hermione eagerly skimmed the list of spells and potions she’d master over the next few months (the ones she hadn’t practiced in advance, at least, and there was always some merit in refining technique). They were learning Apparition this term, which Hermione had been itching to try. Ginny was astonished and delighted to hear that Hermione could wobble her way around on a broom now. Since Harry and Ron didn’t have Quidditch until closer to spring, they could plan excursions without scheduling around practices and games.

The only thing preventing Hermione from being completely happy was Draco. Or, rather, the pang she felt in her gut when she saw him look at Harry and Ron flanking her, and move past her without saying hello. For years, Hermione had appreciated the way her boys closed ranks to shield her from bullies. It was tough to request more elbow room now. It was strange, though, like being in two places at once. She still felt the warmth of Harry and Ron’s protection, but it was jarring to imagine them through Draco’s eyes.

She knew him now. She couldn’t unsee the way his body tightened when he saw her friends. Tension pulled at his mouth. Like a sneer, very much so, but not. She watched the way he narrowed his eyes and exaggerated his movement when he walked, and she wondered how she’d ever seen it as anything but a performance.

In a weird turn of events, it was easier for Hermione to spend time with Draco in class, when Harry and Ron couldn’t rush to her side. Draco was making good on his promise to flirt with her in front of other students. If that’s what you wanted to call it. 

“Granger,” he whispered behind her in Potions class. “Granger.”

Hermione ignored him. They were working on a levitation potion, and some of the ingredients were slippery and unpleasant to handle.

“Granger.”

“What?” she whispered back.

“I’m out of Billywig stings.”

“So get more.”

“Share yours,” he whispered.

“Stop being a lazy git.”

“Come on, help me out.”

Hermione squinted at her tray, counting ingredients. She glanced back at Draco. “How many do you need?”

He lifted his chin, eyeing her table. “All of them.”

“I am not giving you all of them!” In her indignation, her voice rose more than she meant for it to.

Draco held a finger to his lips, his face stern. “I’m trying to work,” he said at a normal volume. “You mind keeping it down?”

In Care of Magical Creatures class another afternoon, it was Nogtail day. The beast looked like a stunted, demonic pig, the notable differences from true swine being the onyx eyes and that Nogtails chewed the cud. Hermione chose a prudent spot behind the front row of students.

Draco glanced behind him, a sly smile playing around the corners of his mouth.

“Granger.”

“What.”

“Switch places with me.”

“No.”

“You know you’re just going to get distracted by the view,” Draco whispered. “I’m thinking of your education.”

“I’m not switching with you,” Hermione whispered. “And it’s not just because I'm checking out your ass.”

He flashed her another look, eyes alight with surprised amusement.

Just then, the Nogtail hawked its throat and spat a glob of foamy spittle on Susan Bones’ robes.

“They spit when they’re nervous,” Hermione murmured. “Watch yourself.”

Although he left her alone when Harry and Ron were around, whether out of intimidation or respect of her request to talk to them in her own time, as the week wore on, Draco was more reckless than Hermione would have expected in seeking her out. It was hard to snatch moments to themselves, and he seemed prepared to compromise on privacy for the sake of getting to be close to her.

Late one afternoon, a handful of days into term, he stormed up out of nowhere and wrapped his arms around her. Hermione could hear other voices just down the next corridor.

“Hey. What’s this about?” she said.

He grunted. “Just shut up and give me a hug.” He put his face down in the crook of her neck.

“Bad day?”

Draco shrugged.

“I got a new game for Christmas,” Hermione said. “I'll bring it tonight.”

“Okay.”

Draco took a long breath, squeezed her one more time, and set off again without saying anything else to her. Hermione absently brushed a feather off the front of her robe and went to find her friends.

By the next morning’s History of Magic lesson, he was in a rakish mood again. Professor Binns, for lack of better idea, was assigning lengthy essays for them to work on in class. It took all of ten minutes before Hermione heard the first bored sigh behind her, and the whisper came shortly after that.

“Granger.”

“For Godric’s sake.” Hermione shook her head to keep from smiling.

“Granger.” 

She hunched down, scribbling on her parchment.

“Granger.”

She tossed her hair behind her. “What?” she hissed.

He grinned at her. “I forget.”

She flicked her quill at him. “Stop being a twit.” 

Harry looked up from his essay. “Is he bothering you?”

“No more than usual,” she said lightly. She looked over her shoulder at Draco and smiled. He gave her a small smile in return.

For the next few minutes, there was no sound but the scritch of quills. Then Hermione reached the end of her parchment before she reached the end of what she had to say, and got up for a trip to the supply cabinet. This time, Draco’s voice rang out across the room.

“Granger, be a love and grab a few quills for me while you’re there?”

Hermione glared at him, pressing her lips together in mock annoyance. Most of the class perked up, waiting to see how she responded to the challenge.

She took the inkwell and extra parchment for herself first. She tapped her fingers against the box of quills, then grabbed three. A quick spell under her breath, and the quills fired at Draco, sharp point first.

He was ready with an  _ Arresto totale _ spell. He plucked the suspended quills out of the air and flashed Hermione his best cat-got-the-canary grin. “Thanks, pet.”

After class, she came up alongside him and smacked his arm with the back of her hand. Draco smirked and draped his arm across her shoulders.

“Took you long enough. Thought I’d have to do a handstand on your desk to get you to acknowledge me in class.”

“How are you finding any time to get your work done when you’re running your mouth all the time?”

“I’m brilliant.”

“Hannah, Luna, and I were talking about doing a skate race on Sunday afternoon. We’ll each lead a team from our House. Now that Quidditch is done until spring, we thought it might be fun to have another event of sorts going on. Do you think I should ask Millicent if she wants to get a Slytherin team together?”

“Please. Yes. She’d love that, and it’ll save the rest of us from her asking. I swear, the girl grew up on a moat.”

“Hmph. That's what I thought. I don't suppose you'd come with me to talk to her?”

“Granger, you’re not scared of her.”

“No,” Hermione said. “But I can be sensible. She put me in a headlock the first time we had to duel. She probably wouldn’t now, but I don’t know if she wants to any less.”

“Mister Malfoy.” A bass voice broke into their conversation. Snape stalked up, cloak billowing behind him.

Draco took his arm off of Hermione. His fingertips touched the small of her back briefly. “Professor.”

“Come with me. We have matters to discuss. If--” Snape paused, letting his gaze flit from Draco to Hermione, the rest of his face still as a snake. “It isn't inconvenient.”

Draco's posture was poised, face impassive. His lip didn't curl. “It would be my pleasure. Professor.” He bowed his head formally at Hermione. “Excuse me, Granger.”

An hour later, Hermione saw Draco out of the corner of her eye, hesitating between two pillars in the next corridor. She glanced over at him and saw his eyes shift between her, Harry, and Ron. He put his hands in his pockets and seemed like he might retreat back down the hall. His shoulders curved in a little on himself. A few strands of that pale blond hair fell over his forehead, waiting for someone's fingers to push them back.

They were all her boys now, Hermione realized. She still didn't know what to tell Harry and Ron to make them understand, but even saying the wrong thing would be better than making Draco hover out of reach like this.

So, as usual, she'd have to take matters into her own hands.

“Draco,” she said, and held out an arm toward him.

He blinked, and sauntered toward her.

The other boys pulled closer in toward Hermione.

“Don’t you bother her enough in class?” Ron said.

“It might be better for all of us to talk,” Hermione said. “There are things we should have out in the open.”

“Granger, can we not do this right now?” Draco said quietly. “I need to speak with you. Privately, if at all possible.”

“Anything you have to say to her, you can say in front of us,” Harry said.

“Just give me a minute,” Hermione said.

Draco looked over his shoulder, making sure she was following and perhaps also gauging how far he could lead her before the rest of the Golden Trio got too riled to stay put.

He leaned against the wall, crossing one leg in front of the other with casual ease. “I wanted to let you know you’ll have to do rounds without me for a few nights. Maybe you could cover my night with Hannah. She prefers your company, anyway.”

“Why? What’s going on?”

“I got an owl. I’ve been called home,” Draco said, his voice as nonchalant as his posture.

Hermione froze. “Why would they send for you?”

“Not the foggiest.” Draco’s gaze flashed over Hermione’s shoulder at her friends. “I wanted to tell you. Can't have you worrying when I don't show up.”

“How long will you be gone?”

“I don't know.”

She touched his upper arm, eyes searching his face. “Are you okay?”

A muscle in his jaw twitched. “Of course.” He shifted away from her. “I need to throw some things together. They want me on the next train.”

Hermione lowered her voice so only he would hear. “Be careful.”

Draco looked at Harry and Ron again. Then he leaned in and kissed her on the cheek, and strode away before she had time to react.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It is great fun to get into character and needle your significant other. I am pleased to report that all the above-mentioned pestering has been field-tested and found equal parts annoying and charming, i.e., well-suited for the little ass which is Draco Malfoy.
> 
> See you next week with the fallout...


	23. Snape's On a Train

Draco had never ridden the Hogwarts Express alone. He wondered if any student had. For a funeral, maybe, although more likely your parents would come and get you. The train shook and rattled as it hurtled across the countryside, toward Malfoy Manor. He was glad he’d brought something to distract himself.

Snape slid open the door to the train compartment, swept his cloak aside, and sat across from Draco.

Draco raised his eyebrows. 

Snape did, too, in an exaggerated mockery of his student. “Am I encroaching on your space, Mister Malfoy?”

“You’re welcome to accompany me, Professor, as I’m sure you know.”

“Aristocracy doesn’t impress me,” Snape said. “Save your manners for your games with your peers.”

“Fine,” Draco said. He opened his book. “I’ll entertain myself for the journey, then, if you’ll excuse me.”

“You expect to waltz into Malfoy Manor with Muggle literature tucked under your arm?”

“My parents don’t inspect my bags when I walk into my own home.”

“You’re being foolish.”

“I’m doing everything they’ve asked of me.”

“Is that all?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Snape brandished his wand. Draco had been practicing. Slam and lock the doors in his mind, let other memories, some true and some false, come to the surface instead. Snape had been practicing with Draco at probing his experience repairing the Cabinet. Highlight the progress, show the flashes of pride in his success, bury signs of fear or dread out of reach. Give no one reason to complain about his commitment.

Except that Snape didn't pry his mental reach into that door.

Draco scrambled to stay ahead. Snape was tunneling through an unexpected avenue of Draco's mind, into a place inhabited by the green smell of plants and fruity conditioner, the smarting rap of glass against the back of his head, a whirl of shock and confusion and elation. He flung up an old memory to deflect. Astoria’s fragile smile and translucent skin. The seams of the memories didn't quite fit--the emotional color didn't match--but it gave Draco the second he needed to lock Granger behind another door.

Snape sniffed. “You're quick.”

“Don't you have anything better to do than snoop?”

“I don't have to,” Snape said. “Taking pains to protect your mind is wasted when you let yourself be so obvious with your...dalliance.”

Draco bared his teeth. “I didn't realize you were so invested in your students’ personal lives.”

Snape's haughty sneer could put even a Malfoy to shame. “I would consider it a great achievement,” he said in clipped tones. “Not to know a single vapid detail of student life. As it stands, I cannot afford to stand aside while you flaunt your infatuation for anyone who may happen to pay attention.”

Snape struck again. Draco flung up his defenses. Not much escaped. A smell of parchment, a feeling of safety.

“Do you have any idea what you are doing?” Snape's mouth contorted with scorn.

“I’m putting in hours of work. Every day. I’ve lost more blood in that Cabinet than you’ve shed for anything in your life,” Draco lashed back. “I also happen to have a few moments in my life that aren’t spent in front of the blasted thing. Should I put more guards around any memories of taking a shower? Did you want to check those, too?”

“You arrogant child. You treat your orders like a tiresome school assignment. The Dark Lord is already displeased that you haven’t completed your task. He will test you. If he finds any reason in your mind not to trust you, your life is forfeit, which means so is mine.”

Draco paled. “You’re bluffing.”

“I have no reason to lie to you.”

“Mother and Father have news. Or instructions. Something came up that they can’t communicate via owl,” Draco said. He thought of them, standing on the doorstep waiting for him, with the cavernous rooms of Malfoy Manor stretching behind them, inside. He wondered if they spent most of their time in the house withdrawn into their rooms, the way he had spent the summer. “Maybe they’ve decided to change my orders. I could be a spy, like you.” His fingers stroked the cover of his book, the pebbled leather reassuring to touch. “I won’t know until I get there. I don’t care to speculate before then. I’m going to read.”

“I thought I made it clear that I expect you to use your time to practice.”

Draco ran a weary hand through his hair. “Did you have anything special in mind?”

“You are using her. The Mudblood girl.”

Draco clenched his jaw and hooded his eyes. “As you say.”

Bitterness clouded Snape’s eyes and rippled in his tone. There was something cruel in the way his fingers gripped the wand he pointed at Draco. “Make me believe it.”

*

Back at the castle, Harry’s and Ron’s jaws had both dropped when Draco’s lips touched Hermione’s cheek. It was probably a good thing that shock kept them from finding their voices until he was out of sight.

“What the bloody hell was that?” Ron demanded. “What the two-headed Skrewt has gotten into Malfoy?”

“Hermione, what’s going on?” Harry said.

“I should have told you both sooner,” Hermione said. “I wanted to, earlier, a few times. I didn’t know how to start. Draco and I started talking, a while ago by now. We have more in common than we thought, and we’d both had reason to write each other off, before. We had a chance to actually get to know each other.”

“Haven’t the last five years been more than enough?” Harry said. “They bloody well have been for me.”

“Things aren’t the same as they used to be.”

“But he kissed you!” Ron kept looking down the hall, as if he expected Draco to reappear and explain himself. “He kissed  _ you .” _

“Why is it so outrageous to think someone would be affectionate toward me?” Hermione demanded. “That’s what you do when you like someone, Ronald.”

“Why in the blazes would he like you?”

Hermione pulled back, stung. “Why indeed? Don’t hold back. Draco and I have only spent the last, what, four months being around each other for hours almost every night. He can’t possibly have noticed anything good about me.” 

“You’re not really his...type,” Ron said lamely.

“Just because the two of you can’t manage to scrounge up a reason why I’m worth chasing after doesn’t mean no one can.” 

“Come off it, Hermione, you know what he means,” Harry said. 

“I’m perfectly aware of what he means, Harry, thank you.” Hermione crossed her arms. “Blood. It all comes back to blood. Except that it doesn’t, not anymore. Once you both start seeing the other person as--well, as a person. Someone who’s capable of being smart, and open, and kinder than either of us thought we could expect. Draco--”

“Stop calling him that!” Ron’s voice was sharp.

“You called him that before,” Harry said. “At Slughorn’s party. You asked me to help him stay.”

“He doesn’t hate me. We talked, and he listened, and I could make him see things no one he knows would ever tell him. And he sees me, too, sometimes better than anyone. This is a good thing.”

“Not when it’s Malfoy,” Harry growled. “Not when I know he’s up to no good.”

“Based on what?” Hermione said. She pointed a finger in his face. “You’ve been accusing him all year. Surely you have some evidence. Go on. Convince me.”

Harry sputtered. “The fact that he’s somehow managed to twist you around into defending him seems like a bloody worrying sign to me.”

Hermione let out a strangled scream of frustration. “How am I supposed to have a rational conversation with you when you’re blind with hatred?”

“You sound like Remus.”

“Then he must be right!” Hermione snapped. “Maybe if you listened to him once in a while, it would do you some good.”

“Hermione, I’m trying to help you.”

“Since when?” Hermione folded her arms around her, hugging herself. “Can you really blame me for not telling you Draco and I were friends, when you’ve been bashing him nonstop? Harry. I love you, really I do, but when’s the last time you asked me anything about how I’m doing? I haven’t seen my parents for nearly a year, have you thought about that? I’m sorry I didn’t tell you both sooner, but it also would have been nice if you’d looked hard enough to notice something was changing for me.”

Harry exchanged glances with Ron.

“Hermione, I’m sorry we haven’t been paying attention to you,” Harry said. “I suppose it makes sense that you’d want to find someone else to listen to you. But whatever you think Malfoy’s told you, it’s probably a trick.”

“We’re going to be here for you now,” Ron said. “And it sounds like Malfoy’s gone, so that’ll give you time to clear your head.”

Hermione ground her teeth. “I am quite clear already. I am trying to make myself clear to the two of you. I care about him.” Her voice came out shakier than she expected. “I don’t want him to be gone.”

“This is barking,” Ron said. “You’re completely mad, Hermione. I could understand if...if you liked someone. But everything that Malfoy is. Everything he stands for. You’d put all that aside? Because he has good marks, and nice clothes, and he’s a smooth talker? That’s all it takes?” He backed a few steps away from her. “You’re not the girl I thought you were.”

Harry and Hermione watched him retreat and push his way through the crowds of students in the main corridor. 

“Harry?” Hermione said in a small voice.

“I can’t believe you’d do something like this,” Harry said. “I’m going to make sure Ron’s all right.”

Watching his unruly black hair until his bobbing head got lost in the crowd, Hermione had the sinking feeling that she was going to be alone for quite some time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm no Snape apologist. In my estimation, turning an unrequited crush into a lifelong obsession qualifies you for the status of creepiest man you know, not bravest. (Also, Harry--really? Hagrid? Lupin? Sirius? WTF is wrong with you?) Snape's outlook on life strikes me as jaded and bitter and stagnant and frankly more than a little dangerous, rather than romantic. 
> 
> That said, I do believe, from what I infer from canon, that Snape cares about Draco, as much as his weird, stuck-in-the-past heart allows him much genuine care toward anyone. And I enjoy the idea that Draco might have more freedom to be open or rebellious with Snape than other adults in his life (his father, for instance). I like to imagine that there could be some buried kernel of actual respect or regard between two characters who are basically dicks a lot of the time. (You know I'm on board for giving Draco the arc JKR neglected, but we can agree he's a bit of a twerp sometimes too, right?)
> 
> The question for me, when it comes to Snape, is whether that kernel of sincerity is something I can believe in enough to count him in my own ranking of HP-verse "good guys," or if it's too little, too late.


	24. Claimed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Ambiguous sexual consent, elements of torture (unrelated)
> 
> We're not in non-con territory, or even quite where I often see dubcon going, but given that I've made a point of tagging things like "explicit consent" and "healthy relationships," I want to be mindful of readers who are only interested in reading clear, enthusiastic consent.

Four days shouldn’t feel like a long time. Only two days of weekend, and two days of classes. A blip. But four days still meant twelve meals in the Great Hall with two boys who couldn’t look her in the eye. Or ten meals, rather. Once, she’d picked up her bag, told Harry and Ron she may as well eat with someone who could manage to say a word to her, and stormed over to the Hufflepuff table. Hannah, Ernie, and even Oliver were friendly enough, but Hermione had the sense that she’d cut a pleasant conversation short, forcing them to talk about more general things in an attempt to be inclusive. Another time, she’d given up on the Great Hall altogether and eaten a sandwich on one of the staircases.

Four days, even if Hermione slept eight hours per night, meant sixty-four hours awake with her two best friends in seething silence and a worrying absence that had her hunting for a swagger anytime there was movement in the corner of her eye.

On the fifth day, she was spreading marmalade listlessly on a slice of toast when she saw a flash of white-blond hair on the opposite end of the Great Hall. She jumped to her feet so fast she knocked her orange juice onto Harry’s plate.

It took her a minute to make her way around the long table and start crossing the hall. By that time, Draco had seen her, too, and had gotten up from his seat. 

She followed him out of the Great Hall, but after a minute he was still walking away from her. If anything, he was picking up his pace.

“Wait,” she called.

He didn’t slow down.

Hermione raised her volume. “Draco, don’t think I’m going to let you walk away without a fight.”

Draco turned around. Hermione could get a better look at him, now that he was close. She hadn’t seen him look like this since before the truce. The shadows under his eyes and the starkness in his expression were back.

“When did you get back?” Hermione said.

“Last night. Late.”

“You look exhausted.”

“Yeah, well. Not surprising,” he said. “Give me a couple days, I’ll be bright-eyed and bushy-tailed.” There was no hint of a smile. 

“What’s wrong?”

“Like you said, I’m exhausted,” Draco said. “Let me be.” He softened his tone. “I’ve got a pile of things I need to take care of. When I’m done, I’ll find you.”

Except that he didn’t. He showed up late for classes, kept his head down, and made sure he was first out the door. He was nowhere to be found during lunch or free period. Hermione just barely caught him after the last afternoon session.

“I told Harry and Ron, after you left.”

His lip slanted up, but there was no humor in it. “How did they take it?”

“They’re not speaking to me.”

Draco’s expression was hard to read. “That’s what you said would happen.”

“I’ve been worried about you. Why are you avoiding me?” Hermione wrapped her arms around her stomach. “I thought you at least would be happy to see me. Unless being home changed your mind.”

It looked like he was going to touch her, but he stopped himself. “It’s nothing to do with you,” he said. “You haven’t done anything wrong. I don’t want you thinking that.”

“But there is something,” Hermione said. “Can we talk about it?”

“Another time.”

“Tonight?”

“Sure,” he said tonelessly.

That evening, Hermione waited fifteen, twenty, forty minutes for him before admitting to herself that he wasn’t going to come. 

He wasn’t at breakfast, either. Or the morning’s Transfiguration class. Hermione eventually found him on the sixth floor, near Slughorn’s office. He startled when he saw her. Hermione strode up, shoulders back, curls bouncing against her back.

“You didn’t show, last night.”

“I wasn’t feeling well.”

“Are you planning on talking to me?”

“I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“Granger, don’t do this here.”

“Then where?” Hermione stepped in closer, less than an arm’s length away from him. “Name the place.”

“Find your friends. Tell them you made a mistake. Tell them I jinxed you, if you want. They wouldn’t put it past me.”

“No.”

“Granger, don’t make this harder than it has to be.”

Hermione stared. “I’m not in the habit of abandoning my friends.”

“You picked the wrong one.”

She realized, as they weaved through the halls and over staircases, turning corners by instinct, that they were close to the Room of Requirement. Perfect. He was apparently in no mood to duck into a classroom or study area, but if she could conjure what they needed--

_ A place for us to hide, _ she thought as they neared the blank stretch of wall. She glanced away, grabbing Draco roughly by the arm, and when she looked back, the door was there.

Hermione dragged him into a vast space that nonetheless felt close and cluttered. Dusty chandeliers had been stripped of their candles. Discarded trunks gaped, waterlogged books spilling from behind broken latches. Faded wall hangings showed signs of moths and mice. Furniture in various stages of disrepair and decay leaned against stone pillars. The air smelled like dust and rot and mouse droppings.

“Why did you bring me here?” Draco’s voice grated with alarm. “How did you know about this?”

“Know about what?” Hermione said. She looked around, horrified. “Is this where you’ve been going to practice? This is where you have to spend all that time?” She walked deeper into the Room, trying to catch sight of where he’d hidden whatever project he was attempting to complete.

“Forget it. Just leave it alone.” Draco followed her. “You shouldn’t be here.”

“Should you?” Hermione widened her stance, planting herself in place. “I’m not going anywhere until I get answers.”

“You don’t know what you’re getting yourself into.”

“No, of course not, because you’re not telling me. You don’t get to disappear and then decide you’re done with me with no explanation. After what we've already been through? I thought we meant something to each other, Draco. For Merlin's sake, I deserve to mean more to you than this--”

“Granger, will you shut up for once in your life?” he snapped. Then he was kissing her, but everything was wrong. Or not wrong, exactly, but not like any of the other times. His hands clutched at her, and then when she didn’t react quickly enough, they were tugging roughly at her arms, pulling them around him. He was kissing her too hard, but he was whimpering, pressing his body against hers like he was trying to burrow inside her. 

Everything happened differently. There was no laughter. Draco pressed her hands against him, clearly craving the feeling of her on his skin, but when she tried to move them herself, he pulled away. He let her unbutton his shirt, but wouldn’t take it off. He barely undressed at all, in fact. He stripped her down, though, and kissed down her arms and across her chest. Hermione put her hands on his face, but he wouldn’t look at her. He nuzzled against her, burying his face anywhere soft. He was trying to be close to her and hide from her, all at once. 

Hermione put her hands on his back and moved them down slowly, wanting to feel his muscles relax under her fingers.

“Kiss me,” she said.

He didn’t listen, or his mind was somewhere too far away to hear.

He wasn’t rough with her, not as such. He didn’t pin her down or pull her hair. He touched the places that made her respond, checked that she was wet, waited for her to lift her hips before he pushed himself in. But he wasn’t really there with her. His body moved differently, more forceful, less responsive to hers. He needed something, and she was letting him have it, so he was taking it. Hermione could feel the strain in his shoulders, hear harshness in the small sounds he made.

Not that there was much to hear. Groans in the back of their throats, little catches of breath, faint rasps of skin on stone as they shifted weight or found a more comfortable way to angle their bodies. The hard rhythm felt good, better than she would have expected, but he didn’t hover over her, smirking, to watch her come for him. He just leaned in and held her against the side of his head, so she was gasping into his ear. Then he moved faster and harder, enough to make her wince, allowed himself one long, shaky sigh, and rolled off to button his shirt and pull his robe back on. Hermione stared at the ceiling, half-dazed.

“What on earth was  _ that?” _

“What’s the matter, Granger, didn’t you like it?” He folded his arms over his knees. He clearly meant to strike a cocky pose, but when his left arm touched his knee he hissed and repositioned. He tugged at the cuff of his sleeve, even though it was already buttoned at his wrist. When he looked back at her, he looked afraid.

“What happened?” Hermione felt the pang of fear too, low in her stomach. She didn’t want to know, and she told herself she didn’t really know, couldn’t be sure, but her skin prickled, as though the robe she pulled around her shoulders was itchy wool instead of soft fabric. “Just tell me. It’s worse not knowing.”

His mouth twisted. “Why don’t I just show you?”

He unbuttoned his sleeve. Even though his hand was trembling, the habits were long ingrained, and he folded the cuff neatly to keep it crisp before pushing it up his arm. The Dark Mark was glistening and tacky to touch, red at the edges. The tail lashed, and he bit back a cry as the muscle beneath the skin jerked with it.

“It’s hurting you,” Hermione said. 

“Don’t you understand?” Draco said. “This is the part where you leave.”

“I could do that,” Hermione said in a low voice. “Or, if you trust me, you don’t need to go through this by yourself.”

He told her in half-sentences, watching her the whole time for any sign that she was pulling away. The sickening, scaly head of the Dark Lord. The woman, bound and terrified, tortured for fun at the table. The way Bellatrix giggled and clapped when the snake took the Muggle feet first, so she’d scream longer. How when Draco had to look away Narcissa nudged him discreetly, picked up her fork and knife, and indicated that he should cut his food if he didn’t have the stomach to watch. By the time he told her about the end of the evening, he was hugging his knees into his chest, fighting to keep his voice under control.

“They put me in a chair. The snake--he talked to it. He made it go around my legs, to hold me down. He wants you to be scared, when it happens. So it takes hold deeper. He made my father hold my arm out, to keep it still. Then he took out his wand. It--it  _ hurt _ .” Draco’s voice broke. He hid his face in his arms and began, helplessly, soundlessly, to cry.

“Draco,” Hermione said. “Oh, sweetheart. Come here.” 

For a moment, she thought he wouldn’t let her hold him. He was curled into himself, a tight, hard ball. She stroked his back, and he tipped his head toward her, and then she could settle him in against her and fold herself around him.

His whole body was shaking. He was still fighting to stay quiet, still only letting the ragged breaths betray him.

Hermione put her lips in his hair. “I’ve got you,” she said. “It’s okay. You’re okay.”

A thin, keening sound slipped past his lips.

“Sweetheart, I’m so sorry,” Hermione whispered.

A shudder rippled through him. He was leaning his whole weight into her now. Each sob wrenched out hard enough to make his body jerk. There was something brutally efficient in the way he cried, so that he'd be spent as quickly as possible. When the worst of it had passed, Hermione could feel him holding his breath and letting it out slowly, working on regaining control. She didn't let go of him.

“I don't have anywhere to be,” she said.

“He told me things,” Draco whispered, without lifting his head. “He was in my  _ head _ . I couldn’t keep him out. I couldn’t do it.”

“Ssh, it’s okay,” Hermione said. Her stomach was a ball of ice. “What did he see?”

“I thought he was going to kill me. And then his voice--” He pushed the heels of his hands against his forehead. “He  _ laughed  _ at me. He said killing me now would be a waste. He can do what he wants with me. All anyone needs to hear is that I’m a Death Eater, or a blood traitor.”

Hermione put her hands on his face and wiped her thumbs under his eyes. “You are still you. They can't take that away from you, not unless you let them. They can tell you that you're one of them, but they can’t make you be like them.” She leaned in closer, her forehead almost touching his. “They’re not the only ones who claim you. If that fucking shitstain thinks his precious Mark is going to scare me off, he’s a bigger fucking knobhead than I thought.”

For a second, she thought he was crying again. Then she realized he was laughing weakly. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard you swear like that. I didn’t realize you knew how.”

She took a shaky breath. “We’re just getting started. Come here. You’re going to need to know all of these. Don’t ever tell my parents you learned them from me. They’d have a fit.”

They spent a while there, together, going through every slur and curse word they could think of, laughing the wild, high laughter of the terrified. When they ran out of bad words and nothing seemed funny anymore, anyway, they were still sitting with arms looped around each other. He had his head tucked on her shoulder, and she leaned her cheek against him.

“We’re going to find you a way out.” 


	25. The Lower Observatory

The Dark Mark hurt all the time. It was supposed to burn when the Dark Lord called you. Draco didn’t know how he was supposed to tell the difference. His sleeve felt like it was scraping him raw, and the weight of a blanket was more than he could take. Holding his arm under the stream of water in the shower was out of the question. It was a struggle all day to pull his attention away from his arm and attempt to focus on whatever was happening around him, so he did the only thing that made sense to bear it. Pull himself in, shut as much of his mind away as he could, and stay away from anything that could make him break again.

His father talked about the Mark being an honor. He never mentioned pain. That meant one of two things. Either his father had borne it like a man, in which case Draco’s display could only have embarrassed his parents. Or, worse, it hurt more for Draco because of his fear and doubt, and he’d shamed his family by feeling the pain of it at all.

Draco could curse himself for being so  _ sodding  _ weak.

The only glimmer of optimism was that he was alive, which meant that he must have done more to protect his mind than he’d thought. 

As the initial horror abated, Draco could look with a more calculated eye at his Occlumency performance on that night. It had felt like Voldemort’s reach infused every thought and tainted every memory. But in that case, the Dark Lord would have seen too much of Draco’s hesitation and killed him on the spot. Maybe part of how the Dark Lord’s Legilimency powers worked was by convincing victims that they were found out, weakening their resolve to protect their minds. The Dark Lord had probed deeper than Draco wanted, but Draco was trying to convince himself that the feeling he’d had, of being splayed open and dissected, wasn’t true.

He hadn’t been able to relax around Granger since the breakdown in the Room. Draco knew it must hurt her feelings to see him withdraw into himself, but he couldn’t help it. She’d seen the nightmare on his arm, and watched him sob like a frightened child. He couldn’t face looking at her and knowing how differently she must see him now.

“Hello?” Theo waved a hand in Draco's face. “Anyone home?”

Draco swatted at the movement. “Keep your bloody hands to yourself, Nott.”

“No problem,  _ Malf oy _ _,_ just thought you might want to stop mooning over your porridge for a second. Blaise asked you a question.”

“What is it?”

Blaise angled his head, watching Draco over the breakfast table with a cool, half-lidded stare. “I wondered what you were doing, last weekend. A private train ride isn’t cheap, even for those who can afford it.”

“Visiting home,” Draco said. Blaise watched him expectantly. “I had some business to attend to. It’s taken care of.”

“Is your mother all right?”

“She’s fine.”

Blaise’s gaze held, unwavering. “The word in certain circles is that the Ministry is taking more energetic measures toward monitoring ‘families of interest’ from the Wizarding War.”

“So?”

“Your dad’s in Azkaban,” Theo mumbled. “I’d guess that’s pretty bloody interesting.”

“Don’t you have enough to occupy your attention at your house?” Draco said. “Your father isn’t exactly the Ministry’s darling. In fact, I seem to remember him facing Azkaban, as well.”

Theo’s mouth pulled down in an embarrassed sneer. “My aunt and I had three ‘courtesy visits’ last summer, before he was let out. I wouldn’t doubt a few Aurors dropped in for Christmas tea, either. Are you saying that’s not why you went home? I thought you might be answering questions, with your mother.”

“I’ve heard the Ministry is looking into some attacks on Muggles,” Millicent said. “Got the smell of Death Eaters all over. If your father’s in Azkaban, you don’t need to worry about the Ministry listing him as a suspect. In a way, it might not be entirely bad for your father to have an alibi. The Aurors might feel like they have to make a show of due diligence, but then they’ll leave you alone.”

“I’ll thank you not to speculate about my family,” Draco said. “That goes for you, too, Blaise. I’m surprised your conversation’s reduced to this.”

“Merely taking an interest,” Blaise said, a glint of something like amusement in his eyes. “Nothing meant personally.”

Draco’s arm throbbed. This was why he’d kept his distance from other Slytherins last term. Secrets were currency, and everyone wanted to prove that they knew the most about the rumors that had been growing darker and stronger over the last few years. His task was more than enough. He didn’t need talk of raids and Death Eaters spoiling his appetite.

“My father isn’t a subject for your halfwit gossip. It’s easy to sit on your soft asses and talk big talk. Try not to say anything you’ll regret, later on.”

After Magical Theory class let out, Millicent fell into step with him. 

“A sixteen-inch essay by the end of the week? Does McGonagall think we don’t have work for any other classes?”

“Just spit back the lecture. She wants to think everyone gets as caught up in every miniscule detail of Koldov’s Laws of Spell Creation as she does.”

“That would involve listening to her blather on closely enough to remember all those details. We can’t all memorize her lectures the way a few of you seem to be able to,” Millicent said. “Speaking of, have you seen Hermione Granger lately?”

“I’m in six classes with her, and we’re both prefects. What do you think?”

“Touchy, aren't we?” Millicent said. “Is that why she’s upset?”

“She’s not upset.”

“Medusa’s head, are you saying you haven’t noticed? She’s been eating at other House tables, moping around. I went down to Animal Keeping to pick up some litter for my cat and she was there crying. She’s got her knickers knotted about something.” 

“What’s it to you?”

“To me? Nothing,” Millicent said. “I wondered if it would mean anything to you. Apparently I was mistaken. Forget I mentioned it.”

Draco knit his brows. “Did she say something to you?”

“Lately? No. I’ve taken an interest, though. A bit surprising, almost, that she’d head to the Hufflepuff table. She found Slytherin company cozy enough over break.” Millicent gave him a crafty smile, then sighed. “It was just for break then, wasn't it?”

“What was?”

Millicent waved a vague hand. “All of it. You, Granger, all the Houses joining in a song and dance about unity. Theo thought the Hufflepuffs threw the most brilliant Christmas party he’s ever been to, not that he’s had much for comparison, poor blighter. You and Granger should never be on a Runes team together, you’re both too clever by half, but it’s funny to watch you get frustrated with each other.”

“I didn't realize you'd taken such a shine to Granger.”

“You're one to talk.”

“She’s cocky even for a Gryffindor,” Draco said automatically. Then, cautiously, he added, “Though out of any of them, she’s earned it. She’s quick on her feet. You complain about a paper on magical theory, but she’s already inventing spells. If it weren’t for her blood, she’d be headed straight for the top of the Ministry the second she walks out of here.”

“Some of us wouldn’t see it as such a bad thing if there were more of an alliance with families outside what’s left of the Twenty-Eight.” She peered around and lowered her voice. “The attacks on Muggles aren’t random. Someone’s tracking genealogy records, going after Muggle families who married into Wizarding ones.”

“So?”

“So that means they're coming after relatives, you dolt,” Millicent said. “Any Purebloods with an outside branch are damned either way. Either your grandma or cousin or what have you is a sitting duck, or you end up in a Charms race against spell-crackers trying to bypass concealment spells and find traces of magic leading right to the doorstep of whoever you want to protect.”

Draco couldn't hide his dumbfounded expression. “Are you suggesting you have Muggle relations?”

“Obviously not.” Millicent's round face was blank. She met Draco's eyes without flinching. “That would be a terrible scandal. My family's official documents show us to be rightful members of the Sacred Twenty-Eight, and I would never say anything to damage my family's reputation. Especially in dangerous times like these. A Pureblood who gives a whiff about anything to do with Muggles is hard to find. It seemed for a little while like you might be one.”

*

If he hadn’t been so distracted by the pain in his arm, he would have noticed Granger’s absence sooner. The Dark Mark attacked him in different ways, preventing him from acclimating to it. The edges itched and burned. Draco kept imagining that he could peel it off, like an enormous black leech, and his own skin would be waiting underneath. When his nails scraped over it, the snake winding out from the skull’s mouth writhed, wrenching his muscles along with it. He could feel the unnatural way the deep tissue in his arm pulled against the bone. The ripping pain brought with it a shout of fury in his mind that didn’t sound like his voice.

He could feel the Mark moving, at night, when he was trying to sleep. Whenever he was alone with his thoughts and couldn’t hold back the memories of what had happened to him, the corrosive stinging ate away deeper. The Dark Mark sensed weakness, they had told him. The harder he wriggled, the tighter it would grip.

Once Millicent had called it to his attention, though, Draco couldn’t shake the needling idea that something really was wrong with Granger. It wasn’t like her to keep quiet and out of the way.

The trouble was, considering how often he saw her during the day, it was surprisingly difficult to get ahold of her. She fled after class periods ended, and she switched with MacMillan so she could spend her shift with Hannah, instead of with Gemma to be with him. 

The next day, when Granger was still subdued in class, Draco resolved to get some answers.

She wasn't in the library. Or the Potions lab. Or the Prefects’ lounge. Draco didn’t have the latest password to Gryffindor Tower, but he spotted a first-year he remembered from Christmas, who checked and said she wasn’t there, either.

Draco racked his brain. She was missing those knobheads Potter and Weasley. She’d try to make up. Which meant, Draco thought with distaste, that now he had to go and bloody try to think about where the pair of them would be in hopes of catching her on the way.

The Quidditch pitch was deserted except for a few Ravenclaws, and the Room of Requirement was empty. Draco checked the library again for good measure, and even took a stroll outside toward Hagrid’s hut. Nothing, with a side of bloody nothing. For Salazar’s sake, he must have laid eyes on every other student in the castle, with all the criss-crossing. He should have run into her by now. What was the blasted girl waiting for?

“Oh.”

It was like a small voice, deep in his chest. A tiny prodding. Maybe the reason she wasn’t anywhere he’d expect to encounter Potter or Weasley was that she wasn’t looking for them.

_ “ Oh .” _

He mounted the steps to the Astronomy Tower slowly. If he was wrong--obviously there’d be no one to see it, but there was a limit to how much humiliation he could take, even by himself.

He heard the soft sniffle when he reached the Lower Observatory landing. Her eyes were red when he opened the door.

“How did you know I was here?”

“I didn't,” Draco said. He shut the door behind him and took a cautious step forward. “I was looking for you. What are you doing hiding up here?”

“I’m not hiding. I was trying to give myself a break,” she said. “I needed a place to just be, for a little while.”

“Why come here, if you wanted to be alone?”

Hermione shrugged. “It’s not a restricted part of the castle. I can be here, if I want.”

“I thought maybe you were waiting in case I showed up,” Draco said, defeated. “You weren’t.” 

“I didn’t think I could ask that of you. I know you’re dealing with more. I’m trying to handle things myself.”

Draco shifted on his feet. “Do you want someone to sit with you?”

Hermione nodded. Draco crossed and settled himself next to her. He wasn’t sure what to do. She wasn’t crying anymore. He didn’t know if he was supposed to hug her anyway, or if it would set her off again and it was better to keep to himself. He didn’t know if he was ready to handle it if she did start again. 

“I’ve been trying and trying to do the right things, and no matter what I say or do, it all keeps falling apart,” she said.

“If you’re looking for comfort, I’m not exactly the best person to ask.”

“Okay.” 

After a while, the silence made him uneasy. “Do you want to talk to me?”

“It’s been a bad week.” 

“Is that it?”

She hesitated. “I’m afraid you’ll laugh at me, or think it’s dumb.”

“Let’s hear it and go from there.”

Hermione put her chin on her knees. “Never mind.”

“No, tell me.” Draco nudged her. “I won’t tease you.”

“I didn’t know if you were mad at me about something.”

“What? No. Why would I be?”

“I expected Harry and Ron to need time to cool off. But after you showed me--I thought we understood each other. I thought we were going to figure something out together, and then you just shut down.”

“I didn’t know how to talk to you.” The words came out reluctantly. 

“I’ve missed you.”

Draco felt a painful squeeze of emotions in his chest, a weird mixture of guilt and shy pride. 

Hermione looked at her hands. “It’s bad enough with my friends not speaking to me,” she said. “But you had to go and pick now to decide you’re bored with me, or you don’t want to be around me anymore.”

“Hermione. How can you think that?” Draco said. “Do you have any idea how rare you are?” He grabbed her hand and craned his head, trying to make her look at him. “I love everything about you.”

Her eyes rose to meet his. There was a fine line between her eyebrows. Draco knew that line. It appeared when she was captivated by something she was learning, pouring her full focus and wonder and imagination into a perfect spell. He'd seen it when she was dreaming. Suddenly, the idea that he could be the one to make it appear seemed like the most important thing he could know about himself.

“I love you,” he said.

“I love you, too.”

“I know you do.” Surprising, a little, how true it felt to say. He’d been so sure, on the train ride back to Hogwarts, that there would be nothing left for him there. Her reaction to his Mark had stunned him, and yet it felt strange to remember that he'd convinced himself that she'd turn her back on him. “So then don’t shut me out, either.”

She scooted over and tucked herself under his arm. He moved her hair over to the opposite shoulder and rested his hand on her back, his thumb stroking the dip of her shoulder blade. It felt good to sit like that, with her head close to his heart. It was only after a minute that he realized his left arm was the one around her.

Hermione’s voice sounded more confident again, more like herself. “We shouldn’t hide from each other anymore.”

Draco cringed. He’d told her so much already, and even so, there were things he didn't dare tell anyone. This was the first moment since he’d stepped over his doorstep that he’d felt like more than a failure. “We find each other. Whatever happens.”

That much, at least, was a promise he could try to keep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy belated Valentine's Day, everyone! It's actually a delightful coincidence that the chapter where they Say It for the first time falls now. I decided on my pub schedule back in December so I could post the Christmas chapter on Christmas, and only realized this timing later. For a while I was cranking out a chapter and change per week, so that might play into it.
> 
> I've thought a lot about the Dark Mark, as well. I found it so interesting that Wormtail had it, and that's what clarified for me that there must be different versions, although the design is identical. The symbol of esteem vs. the punishment/brand. It's the kind of sick joke I could see appealing to Voldemort. I am...pretty stoked to geek out over the physiological/psychological/magical consequences of this weird bit of magic, ngl.


	26. Potter

Draco came across Harry on the Quidditch pitch, marking out plays in a thick notebook emblazoned with the Gryffindor crest.

“Potter. We need to talk.”

Harry flushed, his scar stark against his reddening forehead. “Damn right. I should kick the shit out of you. What kind of sick game are you trying to play?”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“You drugging her, is that it? Slipping love potion into her pumpkin juice? Whatever you think she’s going to tell you about us, you’re wrong. Hermione’s too loyal to get taken in by you.”

“I don’t need to coerce a girl to get her in my bed,” Draco snarled. “She’s sleeping with me because she likes it, Potter. She chose me. I haven’t laid one finger on her that she didn’t want me to.”

“You keep your slimy hands off of her!” Harry lunged at Draco.

“Potter, get a grip!” Draco wrestled with Harry, trying to keep the other boy off him. “You idiot, back the hell off for a second and listen to me. You need to lay off her. She’s coming to me crying because of you and that ginger bastard. I’ve got my own affairs to handle without cleaning up your messes.”

“Oh, that’s nice. Hermione’s a mess to you.”

“Of course she’s not!” Draco clenched his teeth, willing himself to regain some composure. “Don’t tell me what Granger is to me. That is not your concern. What should be, and apparently isn’t, is that you’re supposed to be her friend and you’re driving her to tears. You don’t like me, fine, I assure you I have no problem with that. But don’t drag her into it.” He shoved Harry away from him.

Harry’s face was slack with shock.

Draco frowned. “Don’t goggle at me like a fish, Potter. You going to back down or are you spending the next few hours in the equipment shed under a Bodybind hex?”

_“Expelliarmus!”_

Right. Bloody Potter and his stinking fetish for disarming spells. Draco should have known better than to threaten him with magic.

“Really?” he said. “Flattering as it is to see you so scared, Potter, I’ll have that back.” He held out his hand.

“I don’t think so,” Harry said. “Not until I get a few things straight.”

“You split-face bastard, give me my wand.” If Potter thought to cast a Priori Incantatem spell, he’d be in for a nasty shock. Draco had spent considerably more time practicing Dark spells and Cabinet work than perfecting the assignments for Charms.

“Why Hermione?”

“What kind of question is that?”

“What do you want with her? Why target her?”

Draco almost laughed in derision. “I don’t know if you’re asking what my intentions are, or accusing me of a crime. No, you know, now that I hear it out loud, it’s all essentially the same to you, isn’t it?”

“So what’s going on, then?” Harry said.

“She said she told you.”

“She said you didn’t hate her anymore. That the two of you were friends. Ron and I saw you kiss her.”

“If you’ve managed to piece all that together, give me back my wand and quit asking me questions you already know the answers to.”

Harry was fiddling with his own wand, twirling it and drumming it against his trouser leg. Draco kept half an eye on it, but it didn’t look like Potter planned to attack him. More like he thought with his hands. Good for him, at least he was thinking with something.

“You’ve been acting suspicious all year,” Harry said. “I’ve been watch--er, I’ve been paying attention to what you’re doing. When I can. You’re always sneaking off somewhere.”

“I swear to God, if anyone else in this castle takes a bloody interest in me, I’m hiring a bodyguard,” Draco muttered.

“Are you suggesting you’ve been going off to, um.” Harry fumbled. His face was getting red again. He rubbed a hand on the back of his head, making the hair stick up. “You and Hermione--she said you’ve been talking all last term--”

“I’ll spare you the details, shall I?” Draco drawled, folding his arms.

“But she likes Ron.”

“I wonder if that wouldn’t come as news to her, at this point.”

“I don’t trust you.”

“I suppose I’ll just have to keep a stiff upper lip and live with that,” Draco said. “But that doesn’t change that she and I are together. You and Weasley are going to have to live with that. You making her life hell over it doesn’t seem to be having any effect other than to make her miserable, and I won’t stand for that.” He held out a hand again, palm up. This time, Potter’s hand lifted, and then he gingerly placed Draco’s wand back into his outstretched hand.

Draco thought he’d want to give Potter one last parting shot. But there was something in the other boy’s eyes that he hadn’t seen before. It wasn’t respect, not quite, not yet. Acknowledgement though, perhaps. Every once in a while, no more than once or twice a year, Draco still wondered what would have happened if Potter had shaken hands with him, their first night. If Draco hadn’t picked the worst time to take a shot at Weasley. He felt one of those twinges of memory now, but Potter would take anything he said, even something simple like, “Good talk,” as condescension and sarcasm. So he nodded instead, lifted his wand hand briefly, and went inside to find his way back to the Cabinet.

Hermione flexed her feet rhythmically in front of the fire. She had a pencil in her hand, which she was twirling and flicking as she read. No one used pencils at Hogwarts, but she always brought a box with her at the beginning of the year. It helped her to practice wand strokes while she read. Quills were too light, and using the real thing--well, suffice it to say she’d broken enough of the Gryffindor Common Room in her first year that McGonagall had taken her aside and gently suggested she find a substitute study aid.

“Can I join you?”

Hermione looked up. Harry was standing there, with his hands in his pockets and a sheepish expression.

“Yes. Please. Have a seat.” She gestured at the armchair opposite her and marked her place in the book.

Harry sat. A small pop caught his attention, and he smiled.

“You know, your toes crack when you do that. I could tell you were back from the library.”

Hermione pulled her feet into a butterfly position, squeezing her toes through the thick socks. “It gets chilly in there in the evenings. Madam Pince doesn’t like to keep the fires lit after the day librarians end their shift.”

Harry cracked his knuckles. “I talked to Malfoy.”

“You did?”

“Yeah, he found me on the Quidditch pitch.”

“He did?” Not her strongest conversational gambit, but it was getting late and she’d been deep in thought a moment ago.

“He was pretty upset. He, er, accused me of being mean to you.”

A slow smile spread over Hermione’s face. She lowered her eyes.

Harry was watching her when she looked up again.

“I have to say, I would never have expected to have Malfoy telling me I wasn’t being a good enough friend to you. Whatever Ron and I missed over break, it was apparently important.” He sighed. “I still don’t understand, Hermione. But you’re one of my best friends. You always have been. So, I’d like to.”

“What did he tell you?”

“I mean, it’s Malfoy, so he ran his mouth a lot. You know how he is.”

Hermione grinned. “Yeah, I do. Did he get to a point, or did the two of you end up brawling with each other?”

“Essentially, it more or less came down to, the two of you are an item, and that’s it, and Ron and I have to deal with it.”

“So what I told you.”

Harry took his glasses off and rubbed them with the dirty hem of his T-shirt. “I guess I owe you an apology.”

“I did think you were starting to figure it out, at Slughorn’s party. What changed your mind?”

Harry shrugged. “You were being weirdly nice to him, but the idea that you’d give someone the benefit of the doubt isn’t the part I have as much trouble with. I can’t even picture what he’d be like if he wasn’t being a complete bastard.”

Hermione looked up, thinking. “He likes to talk, a lot. And argue. He always thinks he’s right.”

“There’s a surprise.”

“But he won’t dismiss the other side out of hand, either. He really listens. He wants to win, but he wants it to be fair. He’d probably say he wants it to be clear why the other person lost.”

Harry made a face. “Doesn’t sound like my idea of a fun date.”

“It’s not like we sit around and argue all the time. We teach each other things, and he’s easy to talk to. Really. He’s so ridiculous sometimes, but when I’ve needed someone to come and find me, he’s been there, too. He--” This was new territory. She’d always been able to tell Harry and Ron anything, but things had to be different now. She’d been so amazed to discover how free Draco was with his affection, and she’d been on the verge of telling Harry about tickle fights and late-night cuddles. One night over break, Draco had murmured how much easier it was to sleep when he was next to her. She couldn’t say any of that. “He’s warm. I was surprised, too, but it’s the truth. He's good to me.”

“You sound happy,” Harry said reluctantly.

“Is that okay?”

“Yeah, Hermione, of course it’s okay. I want you to be happy, I just, ugh. I wish it was someone else. Do I need to hang around Malfoy now?”

“Sometimes, maybe? He’s not exactly keen to spend his free time with you, either, you realize. I don’t expect you to be best friends, but it would make my life so, so much better if you could handle being in the same room with Draco without getting into a fight. I like him a lot.”

“What about him?”

“I’ve asked him the same.”

“Well, I’m not going to be accused of being a worse friend to you than Malfoy. I’ve had enough of that for one lifetime. If he keeps his mouth shut, I’ll stomach the git.”

“Tall order. And you still called him a git.”

Harry pouted. “No cracks about my family. Or Ron’s. If he can manage that, I can let up, too.”

“That sounds more fair.”

“What are you going to do about Ron, anyway?”

“I may as well ask why Ron isn’t down here with you. Why not tell him what Draco told you?” Hermione bit her lip. “I miss him, too. He won’t even look at me. But maybe if you talked to him?”

“I’m not going to go rub it in his face.”

“Do you think I’m rubbing anything in anyone’s face?” Hermione said. “Look, I want to be sensitive, but I also don’t want to hide. I’m not doing anything wrong by liking Draco. It’s not like I’m making out with him in front of Ron.”

Harry made a face.

Hermione pointed at him. “See? That. Stop that. Ron snogs Lavender anywhere he likes, and you never say a word about it. I’d be in my rights to drag Draco right into the middle of the Common Room, bend him backward over the table, and--”

“Okay, okay, enough, I get it,” Harry said.

“I won’t. But I could,” said Hermione. She took a deep breath. “I want us to be okay. All of us.”

Harry smiled at her. “Aiming high, but I wouldn’t expect any less from you. We’ll figure it out as we go, I guess. I’ll try not to be the one messing things up again. I still think you should be the one to talk to Ron, though.”

“You’re probably right.” Hermione sighed.

Harry leaned forward and hugged her. “It’s good to be back to normal,” he said. “I’ll try and let Ron know he should talk it out with you.”

Hermione hugged him back, hard.

After Harry left her alone in the Common Room, Hermione pulled another book out of her bag. There wasn’t much in the library about the Dark Mark. Whether no one had written a report on the psychological and medical effects or whether the librarians had excluded any such documents out of cowardly pseudo-diplomacy, Hermione didn’t know.

The best information she’d found came from books she snuck out of the Restricted Section. There were a few similar-sounding spells, in old grimoires of hexes. Banishing charms to Apparate someone against their will. Calling charms that sank your voice into the victim’s head, a whisper they’d never be able to shake from their mind. There were references to certain torture spells in history books, spells that had been outlawed for hundreds of years, until they were forgotten altogether. Even a Defense Against the Dark Arts professor may not know how some of these old hexes used to work, but the similarities made her shiver. Curses that twisted, forcing muscles into unnatural positions, and potions that made the drinker see horrible visions. Hermione suspected the spell that created the Dark Mark didn’t appear in any book, but knotted elements from many cursing spells together. No wonder Draco was grey-faced and jumpy.

He couldn’t handle this alone. And for once, even Hermione had to admit she wasn’t up to the task of shouldering everything Draco couldn’t carry. He needed help, and he was too scared to seek it out on his own. Hermione had one idea that might work, but she didn’t much like what she was going to have to do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Flummoxed Harry is my favorite Harry to write :). Especially when I get to write some classic Harry/Malfoy antagonism, but give us all a chance to root for the other side. Kind of a continuation of the flip side of Draco's bullying from the party scene, too: that when you're on his good side, it can feel more like protection. I wonder a little bit if that's part of why Crabbe and Goyle stayed close for so long. Maybe there was some of that, "I get to talk shit about these guys, but let anyone else try it and I'll END THEM" energy. Not that bullying is a great look in any case, but we all have our faults.
> 
> Man. Also. It's probably a matter of being in my early 30s, and a parent, but sometimes when I read Dramione and Hermione is just throwing herself into trying to solve Draco's problems, I want to hug her or shake her. You are 17! You are not a therapist! It's no one's job as a friend or girl/boyfriend to handle the full mental health load of someone you care about! /soapbox. But for real though, the Mark is a mess.
> 
> Anyway, I think Harry is largely a sweetheart. Ron needs to process things in his own time, but we'll see how he copes. Let's go, Golden Trio.


	27. Cursed

Gryffindor or not, Hermione paced in the hallway for a good ten minutes before she worked up enough nerve to knock on the office door. If it could only have been anyone else, or any other conversation than the one she had to have, but she hadn’t been able to think of a single other person who might understand.

“Enter.” Even with a closed door and only two syllables at his disposal, the former Potions Master managed to convey impatience at the interruption.

If Snape was surprised to see Hermione standing in the doorway of his office, he didn’t show it.

“How can I be of service?” he drawled. “Did you neglect some minor facet of curse classification in your essay? You’ve already submitted more than twice the required length of parchment.”

“Do you have a moment to talk?”

“Time, yes. Inclination is another matter. Unless you have a concern regarding your work in my class, I am not obligated to entertain you indefinitely.”

“I need to talk to you about Draco.” Hermione swallowed. Her throat felt dry. “Draco Malfoy?”

“Yes, I know who he is.”

“He needs help.”

“Mister Malfoy is perfectly capable of finding my office on his own, should he wish to speak to me. The fact that you are here, and he is not, suggests otherwise.”

“Just because he’s too proud to reach out doesn’t mean he doesn’t need support,” Hermione said. “He’s--stressed, and I thought--”

“You thought, as usual, that you would barge in and meddle with things that are none of your business. I should have expected no less, given how brazen and arrogant you are in class, although your lack of self-esteem comes as a surprise. One hardly expects such a conceited student to display such a sharp compromise of personal standards.”

“That seems like a cruel way to talk about a student.”

“I’m not talking about you. I’m talking  _ to  _ you.”

“I wasn’t talking about myself.” Hermione flicked a tickling lock of hair back from her neck, not thinking about how disdainful the gesture might look. “I’m not arrogant. Having confidence in my talents isn’t the same thing. And I’m proud of the company I keep.”

An eyebrow moved a fraction. “Indeed. In this world, many would consider  _ Mudblood  _ to be the ultimate insult. Are you so confined to your books that you don’t understand the depth of that meaning, or so weak that you won’t defend yourself against it?”

Hermione narrowed her eyes. “Neither. Those aren’t the only two options.”

“What would you suggest?”

“I don’t think it’s right to define someone by one word. Even if it’s a word they said. I believe people can change, and be better.”

Snape’s expression didn’t move. “How touching.”

“He needs people he can talk to. Will you help him?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“I will not waste time assisting someone who does not desire my intervention. For that matter, I am no longer interested in wasting further time continuing this conversation.” He reached for a stack of essays on his desk.

“Did it hurt when you got the Mark?” Hermione blurted.

Snape drew himself up several inches, his hand frozen in place on the pile of parchment. “How dare you?”

“How did you deal with the pain?”

“Fifty points from Gryffindor. Show yourself out at once.”

“I’ve been reading,” Hermione pressed on. “There’s nothing on the exact spell, but I recognized elements from seven different curses. If I’m even close to right, the imprints from the Fidelis Curse alone would be excruciating for anyone who had doubts, never mind acted as a double agent. How did you stand it?”

“I have never heard such insolence in my entire tenure here.”

“There had to be something that helped!” Hermione smacked her hands on Snape’s desk.

Snape clipped each word through gritted teeth. “Miss Granger, sit down. Be quiet. And do not abuse my belongings again, or you’ll have detention every day for the next month.”

Hermione shrank into the seat.

“We’ll say another twenty points from Gryffindor, seventy in total,” Snape said. “And four detention sessions.”

Hermione waited. She put her hands on her knees, pressing down to remind herself not to jiggle her legs. Her fingernails were bitten down to the pink. After a moment, she thought maybe he’d forgotten to dismiss her, and she scraped her chair back a few inches.

“I’m not finished,” Snape said. There was another lengthy pause. The room was quiet enough for Hermione to hear Snape’s hissed intake of breath before he spoke. “Only the Dark Lord knows the complete thaumatological workings of the Mark he created.”

Hermione looked up, eyes wide.

Snape held a finger up, although there was no need. Hermione was astonished that he’d mentioned the Dark Mark at all. She didn’t dare say a word to interrupt.

“There is every possibility that he borrowed elements of several curses and enhanced them with embellishments of his own design. He is a powerful creator of spells, the most prolific and the most deadly in hundreds of years,” Snape said. “The Dark Mark places a powerful hold over those who bear it. And yet, it is not unconquerable. It cannot invade the mind, although it appears to.”

“How does it work?”

“The body produces substances in the blood, in response to fear.”

Hermione nodded. “Hormones. Adrenaline, cortisol, norepinephrine--”

“The Mark aggravates in response to these,” Snape continued. “Master your fear, and this aspect of the Mark abates.”

“Oh God,” Hermione said. Draco was afraid all the time. She could see it in his face. She knew it hurt, but he hadn’t told her much about how it felt. Now she understood. Talking about it, even thinking about it too much, probably made it worse.

“How do you stop being afraid when you’re reminded of it all the time?” She hadn’t meant to say it out loud.

“The Dark Lord has never given serious consideration to most emotions. Power and fear, weakness and strength are his areas of interest. Professor Dumbledore believes that the miraculous survival of your celebrated friend after his mother’s sacrifice demonstrates potential to harness hope or love for magical purposes.”

“Find the people you love,” Hermione said. “The more time you spend around them, the more chance that your blood is full of other hormones, and people you care about would help you be stronger and less afraid. And if there’s a way to channel love through magic--Does it work?”

“It is possible that love could help. It is equally possible, if not more likely, that the Dark Mark dampens most bearers’ ability to love over time. There would be utility in weeding out feelings of devotion to those outside the Dark Lord’s circle of followers.”

“But if Dumbledore thinks it’s possible--”

“Dumbledore’s critics have called him optimistic to the point of foolishness before.” Snape folded his hands. “I believe this interview has extended far enough.”

Hermione had more questions, but she also didn’t feel eager to face Snape longer than she had already. She stood, then paused, one hand on the armrest of the chair. “The detentions,” she said in a hollow voice. “You didn’t tell me when the first one will be.”

Snape’s black eyes scrutinized her. “You detain yourself in the library regularly enough. I have no wish to spend more time in your presence than necessary. I will leave instructions for you with Madam Pince. Reading assignments, perhaps a  _ brief  _ essay.”

Hermione’s mouth nearly fell open. If she was hearing Snape correctly, he was not only waiving the detentions, but offering to point her toward material that would help her learn more on her own. 

“Thank you,” she said, and rushed out before Snape had a chance to change his mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is the one where my husband came up behind me and asked, "Why do you have a tab with a clinical study on hormone responses to fear and stress open?" And I'm like, "Because this fanfic magic needs to be backed by the SCIENCE, dammit!"
> 
> I got some neat feedback on my note last week, about my chagrin at the Savior/Therapist Hermione angle that's common in Dramione! I do agree that it's nearly OOC for her *not* to want to jump in and fix everything. She's a take-charge kind of lady. To me, it's a matter of her realizing that, especially given how intensely social Draco is, the support structure he needs has to be bigger than one person, even if that person is her. Plus, of course, the continuing matter of whether there's time to save him at all.
> 
> Also: Snape is so damn fun to write. He may or may not be garbage as a person, but goodness, JK wrote up some people who are fun to take for a spin.


	28. Dark Magic

Draco wiped sweat off his face. “Try it again.”

Granger had her hair tied back, but the ponytail was slipping and lopsided. There was enough static energy in the air that her head was surrounded by frizzy flyaways. She was shaking with the effort of maintaining the wandless Shield spell Draco had taught her. 

Draco eyed her face. Tired, but still determined, and her wand hand looked steady enough. Push her for a few more minutes, and then they could take a break.

“Keep your wand hand up,” Draco said. “Can you see the edge of the shield?”

She rubbed her forehead on her upper arm. “There. It’s like a heat shimmer.”

“Right. Make sure you fire around that. That’s important. If you miss--”

“The spell could ricochet. I know. That’s not the problem.”

“Just get on with it, Granger.”

“I don’t want to curse you!”

Draco gripped his wand tighter. “You wanted to learn this. You’re not going to know you have it until you get it to hit.”

Granger’s face contorted. Draco saw her swallow. Then the hand on her wand was a fist, and she struck. “Morstim tuus!”

The Stinging Hex hit Draco in the chest and spread over him like fire eating a scrap of paper. The mildest version of the hex hurt no more than a bee sting. A powerful version could make the victim’s entire body feel stung. The hex wouldn’t kill, but it could certainly incapacitate. Draco couldn’t keep himself from clutching at his chest, and pain tears prickled in the corners of his eyes.

She rushed next to him, rattling off the counterspell so fast she almost tripped on her words. The stinging subsided gradually. Granger tried to put her arms around him, but he shrugged her off.

“Yeah, you got it. Next one.”

“No, no more.”

“If you want to know these spells, you need to practice,” Draco growled. 

“Not on you!” Granger’s voice was tight. “Draco, you have to stop. I can’t keep doing this. I won’t.”

“Take a breather, then. Get some water.”

Granger shook her head, frustrated, but she dropped whatever she wanted to say and crossed the Room of Requirement for her water bottle. 

Draco sat with his back against a pillar and rubbed his hands, trying to shake some of the last tingles from the Stinging Hex out of his fingers. They’d been practicing for two weeks now, a couple times a week. If Granger was serious about wanting to know some of the Dark magic he’d learned, she’d have to get over her squeamishness. 

She kept coming to him, trying to help. Some of her ideas weren’t bad. Granger was the one who’d convinced him to ask at least for enough help with the Mark that the pain wouldn’t give him away in class. Snape had seemed to expect him when he knocked. The potions he brewed for Draco didn’t make the pain stop, but they took the edge off. Draco noticed that the Occlumency lessons had altered, as well. There was more practice clearing away fear, instead of focusing solely on memory.

But that was as far as he was prepared to go. She didn’t realize how dangerous her other suggestions were. Granger assumed that because she cared for him, other people would naturally fall in step to protect him, too. Draco could imagine how much her precious Order would love to get their hands on him in a “safe” house. The only child of one of the wealthiest, slipperiest, and closest of the Dark Lord’s followers, with a fresh brand on his own arm to prove how much inside information he knew. He’d be the ideal bargaining chip.

“You ready?” he said. “Take your stance.”

“It’s not sparring when you stand there and wait for me to hit you. I told you, I’m not doing any more of that.”

“Fine. Conjuring, then.” 

Granger nodded. She smoothed her hair back into a neater ponytail. Then she picked up an old book and tossed it into the air. “Incendio!”

The book burst into flames. Granger stuck the tip of her tongue out. Her shoulders wiggled as she geared up for the spell.

“Wingardium homoncula, Imper-Incendio Tria!” The sweeping movements of the wand were like a dance. 

Draco cast a Shield spell for himself, just in case. Granger was using the strongest version of the fire-making spell that they knew, intensifying the original blaze. She’d cast a binding quality onto it, but even so, Draco didn’t want to catch himself in the wrong spot.

The ash and embers from the burned book caught new flame, leapt into the air, and assumed a rough humanoid shape. An Ash Golem was mostly air, making it impervious to most weapons and spells. It could walk, though, and hit. A wallop of cinders to the face could stall an enemy long enough to give someone a chance to run.

The Ash Golem staggered forward. Granger canted her body forward, whispering under her breath. Her wrist turned, coaxing. The Ash Golem’s arm swung, following the arc of Granger’s wand. As the Golem continued to cross the room, Granger’s body found its frequency.

That was how Draco thought of it. He could watch her endlessly and never decide whether she relaxed or tightened in that moment. Suddenly, every movement had purpose. Her face was calm, even blissful. Draco could tell from the fluidity of her movement that all her muscles were working seamlessly together. Granger didn’t know how to be graceful in day-to-day life, but she found it here. Something in her vibrated at the right resonance, and all the reflexes she sometimes struggled to master clicked into place. She was working the Ash Golem faster now, making it respond to a battle in her mind. There was something not exactly like a smile on her face that Draco hoped he never saw opposite him.

Draco didn’t realize how run down Granger was until the roiling belly of the Golem stilled and the last curling wisps of burnt paper settled to the floor and winked out. Granger had her back to a pillar. She lowered her wand, and it was only then that Draco saw her knees shaking. She must have been bracing herself against the pillar. Granger let her legs give underneath her. Her face had a sickly, sallow pallor.

“Merlin’s wand, Granger, what the hell are you doing?” Draco snatched her water bottle on the way over and crouched next to her. “You can’t spend yourself like that. The whole point of conjuring one of these things is to give yourself a chance to get away. You’ll get yourself killed.”

She put her head between her knees. “I won’t do that in real life.”

“Yeah, right.”

“I’m practicing. If I don’t push myself, why bother?”

“Drink.”

She gulped water, gagged, and put her head back down. “Give me a sec.”

Draco rubbed her back. It was easier for him to touch her when she pushed herself too far like this, when he was worried about her. It felt good to take care of someone, instead of constantly being the one needing help.

He kissed the top of her head. He wished she would tilt her face up to him for a real kiss. She didn’t reach out to cuddle him much lately, the way she had before. He didn't know how much was her giving him space and not pushing him to give more than he could, and how much was her subtly starting to pull away.

“Feel better?”

“A bit, yeah.”

“Take some more.” Draco handed her the bottle again. “You surprise me. You always make such a thing about being the best in class. I didn’t think I’d ever see you mess up.”

Granger leaned against his shoulder. “Who says I messed up? My Golem was phenomenal.” She took another long drink. “I don’t mind making a mistake, around you. That’s why I take it that far. I know you’ll look out for me. I promise I wouldn’t do something like this if the stakes were real. I’m figuring out where my limits are.”

Draco let his hand brush against Granger’s leg, palm up. She didn’t take it. Probably she was still recovering from the attack of nausea. This wasn’t even the arm with the Mark. There was no reason for her to refuse to touch it, unless the knowledge that the Mark was on him at all tainted the rest of his body in her eyes, too. The thought made his tone come out more snappish than he meant it to.

“Are you finished taking a break yet? We don’t have all afternoon.”

She straightened. “Yes. I didn’t realize I was wearing on your patience. Let’s get to it, then. Tell me what you want to work on.”

The session took a sour turn. Draco kicked himself. He should have done counterspells first. He should have known she’d do some stupid, showy, Gryffindor thing when he gave her a chance to conjure. She wanted so badly to convince him she could shoulder everything he could throw at her, and now she was tired and cranky when she needed to be patient. 

She gave an exasperated sigh. “I hate these bloody things. They’re so finicky.”

“They’re supposed to be.” 

Draco’s father had taught him the counters over the summer, when they practiced hexes in the grounds. They were designed as multi-person charms. They took precision, although they sounded chaotic, and the cacophony of voices over each other would make the spells hard for the Resistance to overhear and use to their own advantage during battles.

As Draco expected, they’d barely made it into the spell before they were getting distracted by the other person's voice and stumbling on their own recitation. Granger had a tendency to try to solve the issue by getting louder and more forceful with her part, which threw off the balance the dual spell was supposed to achieve.

“Not everything’s a competition,” Draco said. “You’re trying to make your spell overpower mine. The point is to defeat the curse, not my half of the countercharm.”

“I’m not trying to overpower you,” Granger said. “Maybe if you brought the level up to match me--”

“You’d just strengthen your part again. You’re fighting me.”

“I’m doing exactly what you told me to do. We say our parts at the same time.”

“You’re doing it wrong. You need to fit it into the spaces between words. The sounds of the incantation need to link up properly. You’re not hearing the gaps right.”

“Why can’t you fit your part around me, then?”

“Gorgon’s breath, do you need to be this stubborn all the bloody time?” Draco set his wand down. “Granger, can you sing at all?”

She gave him an incredulous look.

“Do you know ‘Ah, Poor Bird’?” Draco asked. “The incantation fits. I tried it earlier. You have to fudge a little bit in the second line, but it’s not hard. If you sing it, it’ll help you keep the timing of the spell better.”

“Sing it for me. I think I learned it once.”

Draco cleared his throat. “Ah poor bird,” he sang, a little self-conscious. “Take thy flight, high above the shadows of this sad, sad night.”

On the third repetition, Granger joined him.

“Right,” he said. “So now replace it with the countercharm.”

They practiced it twice together, and then Draco dropped off her part. There was another old melody that intertwined. Slower, maybe not quite as sad, a song about a rose waiting for her wedding day. His part of the counterspell reset bone after a Skele-Splinter Curse, laying fatty ribbons of marrow back into place and nudging jagged edges of bone to fit against each other again. Granger’s part unspooled countless tiny blood vessels to seal the breaks, while also mending burst vessels or torn muscle from the effects of the curse. They needed to keep time with each other so bone and blood would work together, neither outpacing the other. 

For the moment, they were using models from the Transfiguration Lab, treated with an Animation Charm to demonstrate how, for instance, a dragon’s forearm would move in life. While they worked, they could watch the arm twitch as the countercharm coaxed bone and muscle back into familiar shape.

When they were done, Granger broke into a grin.

“You brilliant little idiot.” Finally, she hugged him. Her voice in his ear held a note of disbelieving laughter. “Only you would come up with something like this. I can’t believe that worked.”

Draco hugged her close. He took a breath, feeling his chest press into hers. She was already drumming her fingers on her back, which meant she was going to want to tell him what she was thinking any second. If he wanted to be the one to pull away first, he had to make himself do it now.

“Do you realize what this means?” Granger said when he let go. “You’ve created a key. The Death Eaters think they’ll have the element of surprise as well as confusion, and you’ve taken away both. If we teach this to more people--Merlin, if we teach this to the Order, we could gain a serious advantage. We could be better than the Death Eaters at their own spells.”

Draco curled his lip. “I’m not joining the Order.”

“What’s your idea, then? Do you have a backup plan, if things get too dangerous for you to go back to the Manor?”

“Teach me to make Polyjuice Potion.”

She blanched. “That’s illegal.”

“Why let that stop you?” Draco snapped.

“We’re supposed to be trying to find you a way out, not get you further into trouble.”

He ran a hand through his hair. “Don’t you think it would be worthwhile for me to have an escape plan? Too many people know my face. I might need to be someone else.” 

Granger shook her head. “It’s a bad plan. Polyjuice takes a month to brew, it requires multiple rare ingredients, and it doesn’t last long. The longest I’ve ever heard of was twelve hours, and my best was only around four. It’s not worth it.”

“Why don’t you let me make the call on whether it’s worth it to try to save my skin, Granger.”

“Can we talk about DA? I still think it’s your best chance at a way out.”

“And I’ve told you, it won’t work. You’ll only hurt yourself if you try it.”

“You talk like they'll treat you like a monster.”

“You talk like they won't.”

“Draco, think rationally. We've all grown up together. You weren't on good terms with the people in DA, sure. I'm not saying that they're going to tell you it's all water under the bridge. But you're not some hardened criminal either. No one thinks of you like that.”

“Until my sleeve slips.”

Granger put her hands in her lap. Her voice was quieter. “Are the potions helping?”

“They don’t make it invisible.”

“I wasn’t planning on telling anyone about it, you know. I haven’t told Harry. He’s agreed that it makes sense to bring you into DA, especially with things getting more dire.”

“How tempting. Practice jinxes with the Potter-freaks and losers, with Potter himself lording it over me.” 

“These are my friends,” she warned.

“Exactly. Not mine. Potter likes outcasts. Good for him. Just because you think I'm one now doesn't mean I want to have anything to do with those people.”

“Who said anything about outcast?” Granger said. “Don’t put words in my mouth. You’re an asset, Draco. Harry leads because he’s the only one who’s fought Voldemort. You’re the only other one who’s seen him. Even if we don’t bring that up, for obvious reasons, you’re the only one who can tell us what to expect from Death Eaters, and how to prepare ourselves.”

Draco flinched. “Don’t talk about them like that. Don’t call them Death Eaters.”

She frowned. “That’s what they are. They call themselves that. You call them that.”

“They’re my family,” he said. “I don’t forget that.”

Granger crept forward. They both sat in cross-legged position, close enough that their knees touched. “I know you love them. I’m not telling you to change that, but you know it’s not safe for you to be too close to them, at least for now. Who knows, maybe one day things will be different again.” She didn’t sound hopeful. She rubbed her eyes. “You could save people. If nothing else, I think that’s an important reason to have you in Dumbledore’s Army. I also wouldn’t ask you to do this if I thought everyone would hate you. I’ve seen you go through too much to do that to you. It may not feel like it immediately, but I promise, you belong with us, on our side. Officially.”

When he said yes, she kissed him. Draco took the barbed worry that he would have said yes to too many things right now for a chance to feel the warmth of her affection, and he locked it deep away from himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/Ns are usually about the fic, naturally, but I want to take a moment to share some more personal news: I had a baby! My water broke last Friday. Posting last week's chapter was actually the last thing I did before heading for the hospital, and my new daughter, Quil, was born early Saturday morning. We're both doing well, big sister is fascinated by the baby, and it has been delightful to read everyone's comments while I rest and recover!
> 
> On the fic level: Battle magic is cool stuff. I wanted to reach a little further than straight blasting curses back and forth, so I hope you enjoy some new spells! The Ash Golem actually came about from my husband kidding with me. I was brainstorming, and he gives me this kind of flippant, "You know--turning people into ashes. Turning ashes into people." And I thought, that second one is actually really interesting...
> 
> Magic and music seem like a natural fit as well. I see Draco as someone who is attracted to art in various forms, and for whom creativity comes easily. Not that he's amazing at all kinds of art, but probably has a knack for more than a few, and tends to doodle or twist things into pretty shapes or sing in the shower a lot (when he's happy, at least).
> 
> (Hermione would like high-logic, structure-oriented hobbies, so she'd probably get absorbed in some epic jigsaw puzzles and get *extremely* competitive in board game tournaments.)


	29. Clean

Draco touched the door to the prefects’ bathroom. There was a slight, buzzing feeling of magic, but he couldn’t make out what the spell was. Granger would be on the other side of the door. She had slipped him a note asking him to meet her there. Even before he opened the door, there was something calming in the air. He couldn’t place it at first, but once he was inside, he realized it was the steady, pummeling sound of rushing water.

All the faucets were on in the giant tub. The air was hazy and warm. A few thick towels were piled on a nearby chair, and then Granger opened the glass door of a closet and came out with an armload of bottles. She unstoppered them and poured liberally from each one, tipping her head to cast an appraising look into the tub. The air filled with fragrance, soothing and heady. Fluffy clouds of bubbles began to form.

“Is it okay?” she asked. “Not too strong?”

The smell coming from the bath was intoxicating, warm and fresh. An after-rain smell. Draco wanted to breathe in and in, forever. “It smells incredible.”

“I thought maybe we could take a bath.”

Draco’s stomach did a little twist. Warmth and weightlessness, silky smooth bubbles touching his skin. Her touching him. Until-- “You go ahead.”

Her face fell. “I thought you’d like this.”

“I do. I don’t want--” He thought of her eyes turning cold, her body pulling from his in a reflexive recoil. “It wouldn’t be a great idea for another prefect to decide they need a shower.”

“It’s safe. Did you feel the wards at the door?” She poured a little more of one bottle into the tub, nodded to herself, and replaced the stopper. “Anyone besides us who gets within three feet of the door will remember something they need to do. Far away.”

Draco inhaled steam and soapy fragrance. “No one else is coming in here.”

“Just us.” Granger turned off the taps. There was silence, except for the crinkle of bubbles. “We could make everything stop for a little bit. Be...here. With each other. If you want.”

“How long will the wards last?”

“As long as we need them to.”

She started to take off her clothing. There was nothing showy about the way she undressed. She could be alone in her room, getting ready for bed. It felt good to watch her. Not that Draco would have minded a performance if she’d wanted to give him one, but Hermione’s unconscious gestures, the way her hair swung when she bent to unlace her shoes, pulled at something in him. He’d felt the same way over break, watching her sit on the edge of his bed in the morning to brush her hair or hook her bra. Granger wasn’t most people’s idea of a knockout, but the longer you looked at her, the more you wanted to.

So it caught him by surprise when she stepped forward to the edge of the bath, completely naked, achingly perfect, soft curves and shapely legs, the tilt of her head and dimples over her hips and the way she was resting one elegant hand on the rail, skimming her toes in the water to test the temperature.

“Do all girls know how to do this somehow, or is it just you?” Draco said.

She stopped.

“The way you’re standing, with your foot in the water like that, and your hair tumbling everywhere,” he said. “You look like a painting.”

Her eyebrows knit and forehead crinkled almost like the words hurt to hear.

“You say these things like they’re so obvious. You don’t know what it feels like to hear you talk like that to me.” She shook her head a little bit, and one arm wrapped around her waist, her fingers curling against her belly. Her mouth curved in a shy, crooked smile. “Come in the water with me.”

Draco hadn’t been naked in front of her since break. He took his robe off slowly. She was sitting in the water now, waiting for him. A puff of bubbles rose and fell with the swell of her chest.

He felt clumsy, although the water looked gentle and inviting. He stalled in undressing, unbuttoning his shirt and then switching to take his belt off, then changing his mind again to find a dry place to keep his socks and shoes. He took his shirt off last. She was still watching him with that soft, steady gaze.

“You don’t need to hold your arm like that.”

Draco glanced automatically. He’d turned it without thinking to hide the underside.

“It’s not going to hurt us,” Hermione said. “You can show it to me. It’s okay.”

The water was warm enough that he could feel the change in the air the moment before his foot broke the surface. He sighed, lowering himself into the tub with her one careful step at a time.

When he was all the way in, he tilted his head back to wet his hair. Warm water filled his ears, bringing with it the soft roar of his pulse. She dipped herself under, too, and came up blinking.

They threaded their fingers into clouds of bubbles. Draco had settled on the opposite side of the tub from Hermione. He wished he hadn’t. Letting her watch him undress had already taken so much. If he’d just gone to her side when he got in, and sat next to her, he wouldn’t have this distance to cross to reach her.

Hermione swam forward to the middle of the pool. “I want to kiss you.”

He opened his arms, and she floated forward into them. She touched her forehead against his. He saw her close her eyes, and when she kissed him, he could feel her body sink into him as she let herself relax. Draco leaned back against the smooth wall of the tub, pulling her to lie on top of him. The water stirred the ends of her hair to sway over his shoulders.

It was like coming in after hours spent outside in the cold. His hands moved, and there was an instant of recognition, that oh yes, this was how it felt to touch her body, and his hands felt like his own again. Her knees were on either side of his waist. The gentle pressure of her inner thighs against his skin made the places she touched feel more real.

“I want you,” she whispered in his ear. She took his hands in hers and kissed his palms and the insides of his wrists. She traced the outline of the Dark Mark hesitantly.

“Does it hurt if I touch it?”

Draco watched her fingers. “No. It just feels like you.”

She covered it with one hand. Her other hand rose to his neck. She kissed him again, not as deep as before.

Draco pulled back. “What is it?”

Hermione’s eyes flicked back to his arm.

Draco removed his arm from her hold. “Don’t touch it, then.”

“Draco, please,” Hermione said. “You need to give me some space, too, to get used to it. I’m--I’m scared it’s going to move, when I have my hand there.”

“What do you want me to do about that?”

“Would you tell me about it? A little? I don’t want to make it flare up, but I barely know anything about it. It feels weird to have it be this _presence_ that neither of us can mention. It would help if I could think of it as a part of you.”

“How would that help? Wouldn’t it just revolt you more? Why would you want to think that?”

“Because I love you,” Hermione said. “I don’t _want_ this for you, you know that. But it’s here, and when I see it--”

“You’re disgusted.”

“When I see it,” Hermione said more firmly, “I think of...times people have looked down on me, or hated me. I know you, I know you don’t think that, so if I could look at this and tell myself it’s just another part of your body, it would be okay. Because you love me. If it’s not you, I get scared that it’s, I don’t know, some independent thing that can almost think. I don’t want to feel it move when I’m with you and think it senses me somehow and is punishing you for touching me.”

Draco hadn’t thought about it that way. “It doesn’t work like that.” He took her hand and pressed it over the Mark again, then caressed her face and breasts, looking her in the eyes. “It moves when it moves. More if I’m feeling bad, or thinking about it a lot, but sometimes other times, too. Pretend it’s like a cramp. It can’t see you. Even if it could, it couldn’t stop me from wanting you.”

Her eyes closed. Draco kept stroking his free hand over her. Her fingers were tracing over his arm, touching both clean skin and the Mark. The edges of the Mark were healing. It would be more and more difficult to tell, without looking, where it began and ended. The thought sent a jolt of horror through him, and he felt the Mark twist under Hermione’s hand. Draco’s voice cracked.

“I don’t want to be a Death Eater.”

Her kiss cut off any other words. “Baby, don’t talk like that,” she murmured. “You are mine. That’s all I want you to think about right now.”

So he let himself go. The water and the oils in the bath from the bubbles made their skin sleek and surrounded them with warmth. Not so difficult, here, to imagine he couldn’t determine the precise boundaries between his body and hers.

Draco let her guide him back toward the shallow steps. Hermione nudged him gently up the staircase until he was sitting with his lower legs dangling in the water. The air was cool on his wet skin.

She kissed the hollow in the base of his throat, and his chest, and then the tight skin under his belly button. He still didn’t entirely register what was happening until she was crouching in the water between his legs, taking him into her mouth.

“Oh, fuck,” said Draco. “Oh, _fuck_.”

Hermione had her lips tight around him. Her tongue slid down the underside of his penis, rolled around the tip, and licked back up.

Draco’s fingers clutched at the polished tile under him. “Granger, what are you even _doing_?”

She made a pleased noise, her mouth still around him. He could feel the vibration of her throat. There was a gush of wetness, and an undulating pressure as her tongue lapped against him again. She sucked, and the tightening of her mouth made his eyes roll back. Her hands spread over his thighs, and there was a swirling, and it was hard to make his brain make sentences.

“I’m going to come if you keep doing that,” he gasped.

She took her mouth off him. “Not yet,” she said. “I’m not done with you yet.”

She crawled up over him, breasts skimming against his belly and chest on the way up. Draco kissed her as soon as she was within reach. He reached down to stroke between her legs, and she convulsed when he touched her.

“Easy, easy,” he whispered.

“I need you.”

She spread her legs over him. Draco held his dick in one hand and put the other on her hip to help steer her. She shivered a little again when the head brushed against her. Then he found his angle and got the tip in, and she sank the rest of the way onto him with a low groan.

Draco moaned, too. Granger's mouth was on his throat. Her hands leaned hard into his chest, the weight firm and reassuring. The water rocked him, echoing the rhythm of her riding him. Every movement she made felt like she was giving him his body back. He pulled her hips toward him, wanting to be as deep inside her as he could, letting himself slip further into the water. He was cracking open. He didn’t know if he was going to cry or scream or come, or all three at once. He closed his eyes, and it was good, it was all so good.

“I love you, I love you.”

She was crying out too, pleasure so keen it sounded like anguish. Her body was trembling and weak over him. When she came undone, his hands were there to catch her. They held each other, leaning into each other’s shoulders, not quite ready to look each other in the face until some of the intensity passed. They didn’t say anything else. There was no need.

Draco would sleep without pain that night, and for many nights after.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you very much to everyone for your congratulations, and as always for continuing to come back and read this story!


	30. DA

Hermione and Draco walked in near-silence through the grounds, toward a long, shabby-looking building near the edge of the Forbidden Forest. The sky was just pinking up, and the ground was spongy muck, with bedraggled threads of old grass. The chill seeped up from the wet ground and numbed Hermione’s feet. At least there wasn’t any wind.

She’d picked the spot carefully. Dumbledore’s Army usually met in the Room of Requirement. Introducing Draco into the group was going to be--delicate. The DA members would feel protective of the space where they had practiced and bonded together. Draco already had bad associations with the Room. Hermione thought it best for everyone to meet in a new space, even if it was cold.

The two of them got there first. Next to the building, a large section of land was fenced off. Hermione watched Draco’s eyes track across the empty field.

“You can see them,” she said. “The Thestrals.”

“Yes.”

“I can’t.” She looked up at him. He was watching the field intently. “Are they scary?”

He held her hand. “No. Just sad.”

Hermione looked at the ground. She thought she’d notice new hoofprints appearing in the wet earth. She could tell the ground was tramped down, but she wasn’t catching new prints appearing. Maybe it was difficult to spot new prints in a large area, or the Thestrals were standing still, or even the marks they left behind would be invisible.

“Nott can see them, you know. Theo,” Draco said. “His mom died. People talked. Some of them said his dad had a hand in it, if not directly, then being the one to drive her to. Well.”

“Harry’s mother died in front of him, but he was barely a year old. It was only when he saw Cedric that the change happened.”

“My mother had a soft spot for Theo. She was always telling me to go play with him, when we were little. We grew up together. When he got tired at events, she’d go and pick him up if his dad wasn’t paying attention. It drove me mad. I was probably something of a little prick about it, looking back.” Draco grimaced. “Nott was a mess on the carriage ride to Hogwarts, second year. This explains it.”

Hermione looked behind her. Harry and Ron were too far for her to read their expression, but they’d be here soon. She thought she could make out a few tiny figures back at the castle, as well.

“They’re coming.”

“Hermione.” His arms were stiff by his sides, fingers drumming over his wand. “I can’t do this. This is a bad idea.” 

“We said this was our best shot to give you a way out.”

“You think that. They hate me.”

Hermione opened her mouth, wanting to say something like, “Only for now,” or, “Wait until they get to know you.” But he’d know she was lying. She couldn’t promise he’d ever be met with more than grudging tolerance.

“You’re a Malfoy,” she said instead. “You’re part of one of the oldest and most respected families in the Wizarding world. Show them that.” She looked him up and down, keeping her gaze and voice cool. “Fix your tie.”

His hand reflexively went to his throat to adjust the knot. 

“Better,” Hermione said. 

When Harry and Ron reached them, Ron put himself between Harry and Draco. 

“I’ve practiced my part,” he muttered, just loud enough to reach Hermione.

“Good. You won’t need it.”

“We’ll see.”

Harry rubbed his hands together. He deliberately faced away from the pasture section, eyes scanning ahead toward the other approaching figures in the distance. “Hermione. Malfoy. Beautiful morning. Well done picking a spot no one else will bother coming out to.”

“Bit of a shame about the skeletal death horses,” Draco said, glowering. 

Harry looked over, surprised. “You can see them?”

“Yeah.”

“Huh.”

“Creepy bastards.”

“Right?” Harry said. “Top marks for Hermione on finding somewhere out of the way, but for me, the ambiance could do with a little improvement.”

“‘Learn Dark magic with Draco in the spookiest place at Hogwarts’ wouldn’t have been my first choice for a fresh start, either,” Draco said.

“Seems fitting,” mumbled Ron.

“No one asked you, tosser,” said Draco.

“Stop it, both of you,” said Hermione. “They’re almost here.”

Not all of the members from DA the previous year had returned. But there were enough. Ginny and Neville, Luna and Susan Bones, Angelina Johnson and Dean Thomas, the Patil twins, Hannah. Suspicion clouded most of their faces. Ginny went white when she saw Draco, and Neville’s jaw clenched.

“What’s he doing here?” Angelina demanded. She put an arm around Ginny’s shoulders.

“The hell is any Slytherin doing here?” added Dean. “But for sure that slimy git.”

“Hermione, Ernie told me to tell you he’s sorry he couldn’t make it,” said Hannah. “Um. Hi, Draco.”

“Really, Hannah?” Ginny said.

Luna glided right past Draco and Hermione, hopped up on the fence, and nuzzled the air. “Lovely meeting place, Hermione,” she said. “I don’t come out here as often as I should.”

“Thanks, Luna,” Hermione said, throat dry. “Um. How many of the rest of you can see them?”

Harry raised his hand gamely. People looked around at each other. Neville crept his hand up halfway. Draco didn’t raise his until Hermione looked at him hard.

“You can only see Thestrals if you’ve seen death,” Hermione said. “It changes something in you. It’s weirdly fascinating in a way, there’s a magical field surrounding Thestrals, and there seems to be a sort of psychic lock so you can only see through it after that particular kind of trauma--but that’s not the point,” she added.

Harry cleared his throat. “The point is, the way things are going, there’ll be more of us standing here who can see them this time next year.”

“Forget the bloody Thestrals,” Ginny said. “Is someone going to explain why Malfoy is here?”

“He’s joining us,” Hermione said. She could feel how tense he was, next to her, and she reached out to squeeze his hand without even thinking about it. 

There was a ripple of voices, and it took Hermione a moment to realize why several people in the group looked so stunned. She would have thought it was obvious Draco was going to be included in DA now, since he was here, after all.

Ginny found her voice first. “You’re  _ dating  _ the flipping  _ ferret ?” _

“Well yes, of course they are,” Hannah said. “Since Christmas at least, right, Hermione? I’ve barely seen one without the other since end of last term. They’re sweet together. They did a lovely job with the Christmas party.” 

Draco’s brows furrowed. “Thanks, Hannah.” He sounded surprised, and genuinely pleased.

Hannah put the end of a braid in her mouth.

Angelina looked skeptical. “I mean, good for you two, but I don’t see why that means he should be here with all of us. This is supposed to be a secret group.”

“What if his family finds out?” Neville said. “He could put us all in danger, just by being here.”

“And that’s if he isn’t already planning to sell us all out to his Death Eater parents the minute he can get ahold of an owl,” Ginny muttered darkly.

“That’s enough,” Hermione said. “Someone we lost last year said the world isn’t split into good people and Death Eaters. It’s more complicated than that. Harry and I have seen people be betrayed by people they thought were their best friends. Enemies can be misleading, too. We’re not twelve or thirteen anymore. War is coming. The time for old grudges is done. What matters now is what we do, how we stand by each other when we need it.” 

She drew her wand out of her pocket and pointed it at Harry’s leg. “Osteo protero!”

Harry cried out in pain, clutched his knee, and collapsed. Ron started forward, then managed to hold himself in place. He glared at Hermione. He’d been even harder to convince about this idea than Harry.

Draco’s eyes were round with shock. “Granger, you psychopath, what the fuck is wrong with you?” He knelt by Harry's side, drawing his own wand. His hand hovered over Harry's leg, which crumpled impossibly. “Shit, shit,  _ shit. ” _

“Countercharm?” Hermione stepped closer.

Draco's face was pinched in an anxious grimace. He rolled his eyes anyway. “Yes, the bloody countercharm, Granger. Come  _ on .” _

Harry clenched his teeth. 

“Weasley,” Draco barked.

Ron's shoulders were high and rigid. He looked bigger than Hermione had ever seen him. His face harder. “What?”

“Hold his hand, or whatever. I don't know how much this will hurt.” Draco's hand skimmed over the length of Harry's leg, assessing the pattern of breaks from the hex. “We'll be as careful as we can, Potter. Ready?”

“Do it,” Harry gritted out.

Hermione was more nervous than she expected. Casting the charm on a reanimated model suddenly felt very different from performing the spell on living flesh.

“You start, Granger.” 

She hummed one round of her part under her breath, looking at him to confirm the rhythm. He nodded, and they both came in together. Draco’s voice was shaky, and it took some effort on Hermione’s part to lower her voice to match. As they went on, she could tell he was focusing better on what they were doing. He sounded stronger, so she could work more effectively, too.

“Oh, wow,” said Harry.

“You okay, mate?” Ron said quickly.

“Yeah,” Harry panted. “It’s-- _ ah _ \--it’s weird. I can feel things moving. But it’s okay. It’s like--ugh--like having to cough, or yawn, but I can’t do anything about it.” He pulled his hand free from Ron’s and cracked all his knuckles, one by one.

“What did you do to him?” Ginny demanded.

Hermione held up a finger. The spell was almost complete. 

When it was done, Harry sat up, still wincing a little. Draco hurried to his feet and backed away, then turned to face the fence. Ron offered an arm to help Harry up. Harry tested his weight on the healed leg gingerly, then stood straighter. “It’s fine. It feels normal.”

Hermione stood and wiped her palms on her trousers. “That was a Skele-Splinter hex,” she said. “That’s one of the curses we can expect from the other side. What they won’t know is that we can learn the counterspells they’ve kept secret.”

“We can look out for each other,” Harry added. “But I can’t teach this new stuff, which is why we have Malfoy. He knows the curses and hexes, and more importantly, he can teach us how to heal each other. Hermione said Malfoy was the first one to set a countercharm to music. We have a shot at being quicker and steadier than the other side, if we get started practicing.”

“Where’s he learning all this in the first place, though?” Ginny said. “It sounds to me like Neville’s right. You can’t play with Dark magic without getting hurt, one way or the other. Maybe he’ll act all right in front of all of us, but who knows what he’s up to when our backs are turned?”

“Hermione's not an idiot, Gin,” Ron said. “If she says he’s on our side, I’d hear her out, at least. And he's hardly got a chance to get away from the worse stuff if we all tell him to piss off.”

Hermione was so surprised by Ron's vote of confidence that she didn’t notice Draco was still standing with his back turned to the rest of the group until, in an instant of stillness, she caught the sound of him releasing his breath with slow, careful control. 

“Draco?” she said.

His normally pale face was redder when he turned around. “I taught you that spell so you could protect yourself. You can’t--gods, you can’t just blast that at someone like it’s a parlor trick. What if I froze up?”

“Ron knew your part, too.”

“What if you misfired and got him in the chest? You could have splintered a rib into his lung. You could have killed him.” Draco rubbed his forehead. When he lowered his arm, his expression had fixed back into a distant, cool mask. “I knew all of this was a mistake.”

Harry stepped closer. “I know this is, well, it’s awkward. There’s no denying it. It’s no secret there’s been bad blood between you and me since the beginning, and especially after last year, I’m not surprised it’s not exactly a sea of friendly faces. It would make sense if you didn’t want to be here, what with that history, and your parents wouldn’t like it much, either.”

“Don’t you dare talk about my parents, Potter,” Draco said. 

“Harry,” Hermione warned.

Harry held up his hands. “I’m just trying to see Malfoy’s point of view, Hermione. And I owe it to everyone else to be honest, too. This wasn’t my top choice. I wanted to say that I could give it a go to put some of the old stuff aside, if he wanted to stay.”

“Don’t we get a say?” said Ginny. “We met in secret last year for a reason. It’s dangerous, and it’s got to be at least ten times worse if he knows what happens on the inside. Malfoy didn’t come through when I nearly died. I don’t want to risk my life to protect his now.”

“I’ll tell you what I think,” Neville said slowly. “What you did there, Hermione, I don’t want to learn that. I’d rather die sticking to clean, defensive magic than send anything Dark through my wand. I wasn’t too sure about Malfoy at first, either. Anyone can suck it up and do a countercharm in front of everyone to save their skin.” He looked over at Draco, who was sneering at him out of what Hermione guessed was a mix of nerves and sheer force of habit. “But you getting upset with her isn’t set up to make you look good. You were actually concerned about Harry. If you can teach me some of those countercharms without me having to do the actual curses, I’ll listen.”

“Should we have a vote?” Ron said.

“Absolutely not,” Hermione said. “What kind of people are we if we treat DA like some kind of popularity contest? We’re looking at a war coming, sooner or later. You’re going to throw people away over old spite?”

Draco folded his arms. “Let them vote. If you’re that scared they’ll keep me out, it proves I never should have come here.”

“All right,” Harry said. “All in favor of inviting Malfoy in?”

Hermione almost closed her eyes. She couldn’t have imagined a worse thing to put Draco through. Having to watch, having to stand there and let people judge him. She could cry from the anger and humiliation of it. She didn’t dare take his hand again now. He needed to keep whatever shred of dignity he could still hold, at this point.

Then hands went up. Hannah’s first, then Neville. The Patil twins. Susan Bones, seeing both Padma and Luna, added her hand with the other Ravenclaws. Harry lifted his hand as well and nodded in satisfaction.

“And Hermione, obviously, makes eight. I suppose I should ask for fairness’ sake. Opposed?”

Ginny, Angelina, Dean. And Ron. 

“She’s my sister,” he said when Harry and Hermione looked surprised.

“That’s that, then,” Harry said. “Malfoy’s in. Brilliant.”

Draco scoffed. “Spare me the false congratulations.”

“I’m serious.” Harry looked it, too. “That magic was incredibly complicated, and the two of you know it well enough that it didn’t even hurt much. Hermione was right. We need you here.”

The two boys looked at each other. No one said anything. Hermione wondered if everyone else felt like this could be the moment that really decided things, more than the vote, or even her persuading Draco to come with her that morning. She wondered if either one of them would offer a hand, but they didn’t, just sized each other up. They both looked so young.

“Okay,” Draco said. “So. Now what?”

“Hermione says you know things we don’t. Maybe tell us some of them.”

Draco sucked in his bottom lip and nodded. He looked at the rest of the group. Hermione saw his chin lift and shoulders drop back, and she smiled.

“Granger said you were practicing fighting, last year. I’ll tell you right now that’s a load of bollocks,” he said. 

“Harry’s faced down You-Know-Who four times and survived, and he’s trained us,” Ginny said. “The Death Eaters underestimate what we can do.”

“You have no idea what you’re talking about.” Draco flicked his eyes up and down at her dismissively. “The Death Eaters aren’t even your biggest problem. Most of them don’t want to hurt Pureblood kids. Once you involve yourselves, you’ll get in more trouble than you counted on. What about werewolves? What about giants? They won’t hold back the way someone with a kid of their own might. If you’re standing against them, they’ll see an enemy. That’s it.”

Neville shook his head. “Not even all Purebloods are safe. I’m not going to abandon any of my friends. None of us will. We’re here exactly because we’d rather stand against Dark wizards and fight for what’s right.”

“Do you know what happens when you’re wetting yourself because you’re terrified, and you fire a Stunning Spell at a full-grown werewolf charging at you?” Draco said. “Nothing, for about a second, and then you get your throat torn out. A lot of the DADA stuff we learned doesn’t work well on non-humans, and nothing works as well as you think when you’re panicking.”

Hermione touched his elbow. “The countercharms,” she prompted. “We all want to know those. They can help whether you decide to fight, or get hit with something when you’re trying to get away.”

“Yeah.” Draco looked around.

Luna hopped down from the fence she’d been sitting on. “I’d like to try it,” she said lightly. “I’ve always been interested to see if music would strengthen magic. It attracts Glimflams, you see, and they excrete thaumic energy. It’s all quite clear.”

“Are you going to hurt anyone again?” Neville asked.

“No,” Draco said firmly. “You don’t need to. Granger and I used models to practice on, but even those are for later, when you know what you’re doing.”

“How many do you know?” asked Hannah. “Are there songs for all of them?” 

“I know,” Draco said, and broke off, wiggling his fingers as he counted in his head. “Enough to keep you busy. And no, I don’t have music for all of them yet. Maybe four of them.”

“I’m in the choir,” Padma volunteered.

“Me too,” said Hannah. “We can help.”

“Let’s all watch Draco show Luna,” Hermione said. “He can explain how the spell works. Then we can split into two groups. I’ll teach one part, and Ron can teach the other. Then we’ll switch. Everyone should know both pieces to a countercharm, since you won’t know what might be needed. That leaves Draco free to work with anyone who needs extra help, or talk to Hannah and Padma about setting the other counters.”

Draco and Luna took out their wands. They practiced for a few minutes, with Draco pronouncing the incantation slowly and Luna repeating it back. 

“You need to aim the magic in a lot of directions at once, without losing control,” Draco said. “The blood needs to get everywhere it needs to, but nowhere it shouldn’t.”

Luna’s gaze drifted somewhere far away. Suddenly, her face broke into a radiant smile. “It’s gone all humming and tingly.”

Hermione was impressed. It had taken her two full sessions before she got a handle on how to send the magic through all those tiny threads at once. Luna lost it a moment later, but the effect on the group was noticeable. People started filing over either to her or Ron, ready to hear the parts. Draco worked with Luna for another minute, then sent her over to Hermione and sidled over toward Hannah. 

They worked for just under an hour more. People needed time to get back to the dorms before their absence seemed strange, gather textbooks, and get ready to start the day. Hermione noticed more than one person humming as they walked back toward the castle, faces serious with concentration.

Draco headed back toward the far side of the stable building. He raked his hands through his hair.

“Well, that was bloody excruciating.”

Hermione hugged him around the waist and beamed up at him. “You. Were. Brilliant. You were amazing. I’m so proud of you.”

“Yeah?”

“Are you kidding? Even the vote. Didn’t you see? It wasn’t even close.”

Draco kissed her. Hermione felt all light and bubbling inside. She’d been afraid to hope it would go this well, but it had, and on top of it she got to hang back and have kisses. She pulled back to admire the grey eyes, dark lashes, and delicate features, and to stroke back the hair by his temple. The hint of pain was still there in his eyes, but it was gradually turning into something richer, a kind of thoughtfulness. Hermione thought she was catching a glimpse of who he might become, one day. She kissed him again, enjoying the way he relaxed against her.

“They did listen more than I expected,” he said when they took a break.

“They want to learn this stuff,” she said. “And don’t sell us short, either. We can teach you a few things, too.”

“And Hannah knows we’re together.”

“Well, at this point everyone knows.”

“True. The next few days might get interesting.”

“It’s about time.”

He made an amused sniff and leaned in again. They spent the next few minutes snuggling into each other. Draco flinched when she wriggled her cold fingers under his shirt to warm them, but he apparently didn’t mind enough to say anything about it. 

Hermione sighed. She didn’t really want to say it, with Draco here looking all warm and content and well-kissed. “We better get back to the castle, or we’re going to be late.”

“So be late.” He bit her on the ear.

“They don’t call me--” She kissed him. “The brightest witch of my age.” Another. “Because I saunter into classes late all the time.”

“And you call me cocky.” He grabbed her by the wrist and pulled her back, wrapping his arms around her from behind so she couldn’t walk any farther. “It’s about time you worked at a handicap, then. Consider this a service to every other student at Hogwarts.”

They ended up having to run back across the field to the castle, but they made it to class on time. More or less.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, although the Golden Trio canonically has plenty of beef with Malfoy, and Gryffindor Quidditch players probably wouldn't like him much either, I found myself suspecting that even DA might not be quite as hostile as I'd initially assumed. Draco was involved in the Inquisitorial Squad last year, which is a significant ding on his likability, to be true. But it was also last year, and he bungled that badly enough that DA didn't really suffer for it. I just feel like DA members probably wouldn't hate him across the board. I think there'd be a range, from "He's the worst," to "He's kind of a little twerp/dickhead sometimes, but I don't have a personal vendetta against him," to "IDK, I don't really know the guy," to "Malfoy is Extra as Hell and everyone knows it, but sometimes he's kind of funny?" I'm finding my cast of characters naturally expanding now that the love story I started initially has turned into a more grounded relationship, and I'm finding again that if I leave Harry Potter's canon perspective and look at other students' individual perceptions of Malfoy, there's more nuance to explore than the source material might suggest.
> 
> Also, I ended up sitting staring into space for a good bit imagining evolutionary reasons why it would be good for Thestrals to be visible when you've seen death (they're scavengers? they were on their way to a symbiotic relationship where early humans would lead these creatures to remove the dead before disease-causing bacteria set in?), and why the Wizarding world might attempt to selectively breed these animals to retain visibility for people who have seen death at all, rather than, for example, recently enough that a body could be fresh enough to be useful. But that seems outside the scope of the story I'm telling, so I'll just tuck it here in the AN and you can speculate for yourself about why wizards have skeletal death horses tamed, never mind in use at a boarding school.


	31. Merpups

Hermione wouldn’t have recognized the trill, except that she’d spent enough nights in the Slytherin dorms to know Mersong when she heard it. This was song unlike any she’d heard before. The Mersong she remembered was as melancholy as it was beautiful. This clear, chiming melody made her want to lift up onto her tiptoes and swing her arms in the air.

She found the source of the sound, then ran inside the castle and hurried down the steps to the Slytherin dorms. She and Draco told each other their House passwords now, just in case. It occurred to her that she could probably try her hand at the Ravenclaw riddles, too, and come and go as she pleased throughout the castle.

“What in Salazar’s name do you think you're doing?” Pansy Parkinson said. “This is for Slytherins. We don’t want your kind in here.”

“I'll be out in a minute, Pansy, I just need Draco for something.”

“Like hell you do! He’ll hex you into next week for tramping around down here.”

Pansy stalked behind Hermione into the Slytherin Common Room. A few other Slytherins were relaxing or doing homework. Millicent was standing behind a tall table, mixing a potion. Draco looked over from his position lounging on a couch, and set his book down on his chest.

“Granger,” he said. “Didn’t expect to see you down here.”

“I bet you bloody didn’t!” Pansy said.

Draco ignored her. “Did you need something?”

“Come with me,” Hermione said. “I want to show you something. Right now.”

Draco frowned as he sat up. “What’s wrong?”

Pansy fumed. “Draco, are you serious? The Mudblood barges into our place and you’re just going to sit there?”

“Pansy, shut your trap.”

“Nothing’s wrong,” Hermione said. “It’s a surprise. But you need to come quick.”

Draco smiled. “All right, calm down, I’m coming.”

“How did she even get down here in the first place? Sneaky, spying Gryffindor.”

“I thought being cunning was a Slytherin thing, Pansy,” Draco said. “Maybe my excellent influence is finally rubbing off on Granger.”

“You wish,” Hermione said. “I’d say it’s much more the other way around.”

“Draco’d slit his throat before he’d let you rub off on him, you filthy slag,” Pansy scoffed.

Millicent snorted. “Pansy, don’t be daft,” she said. “This shouldn’t come as a surprise to you. It’s hardly new.”

Pansy squinted. The way she pouted her upper lip made her pug nose even more pronounced. “What are you talking about?”

“They’re prefects,” Millicent said, face perfectly straight. “They spend a lot of time together. Surely you’ve noticed. Stop being a bint and let them go off and handle whatever’s come up.”

Draco put a hand on Hermione’s back as he walked her out of the Common Room. Hermione couldn’t resist a quick glance behind her. She didn’t get to see Pansy’s face; Pansy had swung back to Millicent in her outrage. Millicent, however, was looking right at Hermione when she turned around. Her face was straight and inscrutable as ever. Then she flicked her eyes skyward, just for an instant, and her mouth curved in a hint of a smirk.

“That was, er, nice, of Millicent,” Hermione said as they walked outside.

Draco smiled. “Mill's a good one.”

“She found me in the library over break, the day we went flying. She sounded like she was trying to blackmail me.”

“What did she say?”

“That you and I were too loud.” Hermione's ears felt warm, remembering. “She asked if I thought you liked me.”

Draco looked more interested. “What did you tell her?”

“The truth. There didn't seem much point in denying it.”

His thumb stroked the outline of her shoulder. “Mill likes you. You don't need to worry.”

“Easy for you to say.”

“Things are changing,” he said. “You and Potter aren’t the only ones reading between the lines in the  _ Prophet _ . People are trying to figure out which side they’re on.” 

“Why would that have anything to do with me?”

“Be serious. You’re the only Gryffindor giving any Slytherin the time of day. If anyone’s interested in an alliance with the Golden Boy, their best chance is through you.”

Hermione was worried that they’d be too late, but as they neared the bend in the moat, she heard splashing first, and then another trill of Mersong.

“Good, they’re still there,” she said.

Draco lifted his chin, eyes scanning for the source of the sound. “Was that--?”

Hermione pushed some rushes aside. “Merpups.”

Merpups, unlike adult Merfolk, hadn’t developed the thick, rubbery hide that would insulate them and protect them from injury. Their tails were as downy as a baby seal’s, and they had the same soft, liquid eyes, with eyebrows like surprised apostrophes. Adult Merfolk were hard-muscled, but the babies, like human infants, were roly-poly.

The two Hermione had found were chirping at each other, wriggling up to a pile of rocks, and reaching chubby hands at something.

“Oh, look at that,” Draco breathed. His face broke into a wide smile. He crouched by the water. “Are the parents anywhere around?”

“I saw a tail. I think it was a tail, as I came nearer. But if it was them, wouldn’t they take the pups with them?”

Draco shook his head. “They see students all the time through the glass. They’re not afraid of us. It’s a better sign that they left the pups behind. They know they can trust you not to hurt their babies.”

“There’s a little shoal of fish,” Hermione said. “They’re trapped in a pool behind those rocks. That’s what the pups are reaching for. I threw them a couple, and they ate them right up.”

“That would do it. If you’re feeding the pups, I’m not surprised the grown Merfolk gave you some space to play,” Draco said. He watched the Merpups twirl in the water. “Are there any more fish?”

“Tons. Here, I’ll show you.” Hermione picked her way carefully over the rocks. A pool rippled with silver minnows. It wasn’t even hard to catch them. There were so many that if Hermione scooped her hands through the water, she was almost certain to trap a few wriggling fish in her cupped palms. “Hold out your hands.”

Draco did, and she poured water and two minnows into his hands. He almost dropped them. “Wiggly little things.” He crept a little further down the bank and whistled at the Merpups. “Want a treat?”

The Merpups swam forward, unafraid. One of them caught a minnow in both plump hands, and the other dove for it when Draco threw the second fish and resurfaced, licking her lips.

Hermione threw a couple more, and the babies squealed, splashing each other playfully. Every sound they made filled her with a giddy rush. Draco must have felt the effects of the Merpups’ song, too. He sat with his eyes closed, basking in the sound. Hermione had a sudden, wild impulse to scratch him on the crown of his head, like a cat.

She gave a nervous giggle. “It feels weird. I don’t know how much I’m feeling is the Merpups and how much is really me.”

He kept his eyes closed. “It feels good to feel happy, Granger. Just enjoy it.”

She sat on one of the flatter, drier rocks, tossing minnows at the Merpups and feeling her heart lighten as the babies warbled in delight.

Draco beckoned a hand. “Give me a couple more. I want to try something.” When Hermione picked her way back to the bank and handed him the fish, he gripped a minnow firmly between his fingers. He held it out for the Merpups to see, repeating the coaxing whistle. 

They swam forward, pausing just out of reach. One of them trilled back at Draco. Then she swam in a little closer, and then the temptation was too great and she tugged at Draco’s hand. The other one darted in, too, grabbing his other hand and nearly pulling him into the water. His feet plunged in, startling the Merpups, who flipped around and dove, splashing him liberally in the process.

Draco yelped, and then he was laughing too hard to sit up straight. He didn’t bother trying to push himself further up the bank or even take his soaked shoes out of the water, just put his elbows on his knees and cracked up.

Hermione’s throat felt tight. Before she could stop herself, the tears sprang into her eyes, and a choked half-laugh, half-sob escaped.

Draco looked up, concerned. “What is it?”

Hermione shook her head.

“You’re crying,” he said.

“You’re laughing,” she said. “It’s been a long time.”

Draco put a hand on the back of his neck. There was a ripple in the water, and one Merpup poked a curious face above the water again. 

“Give me another fish,” Draco said.

Hermione looked at his face, and decided to take a chance. “Get it yourself. You’re all wet anyway.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Oh, it’s like that?” He snatched her arm and tugged her into his lap, leaning forward so she had to clutch at his shoulders to keep from tipping into the moat. “Fancy a swim?”

“Put me back!”

Draco tutted. “So rude. Not even a ‘please.’” He dangled her a little farther.

“You--oh, don’t you dare!”

“Better ask nicely.” He put his face closer to hers and dropped his voice to a whisper. “Say please.”

Hermione stuck her tongue out at him. “Please.”

He pecked her on the lips. “Oh, were you not asking for a kiss?”

“You smug prat, put me back on the grass before your skinny arms give out.”

“I should drop you for that alone,” Draco said, but he hauled her back up with a grunt and deposited her next to him. Then he reached down and flung water back, splashing her face and chest.

“It’s on,” Hermione said.

Splashing escalated to kicking water at each other, and a few minutes later, Hermione was barefoot in the pool, flinging tiny fish at Draco so they wriggled through his hair and down his collar. He scrabbled at his shirt, then yanked it out from his trousers so he could whisk the minnow away.

“Merlin, Granger, if you want me shirtless, next time just ask.” He sat on the bank, dipping his toes in the water.

Hermione had another double handful of fish flicking their fins against her palms, when a pair of approaching figures caught her eye.

“Is that Theo Nott?” she said.

“Is that  _ Hannah _ ?” said Draco, sounding even more incredulous.

It was unmistakably Hannah. Hermione would know those blonde braids and that gait anywhere. Almost no one else at Hogwarts would get the reference, but Hermione always thought Hannah walked like one of the earlier Disney princesses--light on her toes, and quick to startle, with her hands clasped or floating somewhere around the level of her heart. From a distance, Hermione might have been less sure about Theo, but the pair of them were walking closer, and anyway, you didn’t have to get too close to identify the color green.

Hannah waved as they approached. “Hi Hermione, Draco. Nice day for a walk. It finally feels like spring.”

“It does,” Hermione said. “Hey, Theo.”

Theo ducked his head and raised a hand in greeting.

“Really? You’re all going to leave it up to me?” Draco said. He leaned back on his hands. “Theo, I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but you would appear to have a Hufflepuff on your arm.”

“You’ve got a Gryffindor on yours.”

“I think you’ll find she’s in the minnow pool, technically, but point taken.”

“We got to talking at the Christmas party,” Hannah said. “Theo wanted to see how I made some of the decorations. From there, things just clicked.”

“I didn’t even notice you together,” Hermione said.

Hannah gave her a gentle smile. “Your attention was somewhere else.”

“What are you two up to?” Theo asked.

“Granger found Merpups.”

Theo perked up. “Are they still around?”

“We got into a splash fight, and it looks like they decided there weren’t any more fish in it for them.”

“Sounds like you both got a decent pick-me-up out of it, at any rate.”

Hannah looked uncertain, so Hermione chimed in.

“Adult Mersong is sad, but the babies make you feel euphoric. It’s a survival thing, so anyone nearby will want to protect them.”

Hannah nodded. “That sounds adorable. I’d love to see that one day.”

“I’ll keep a look out,” Theo said. “Or maybe you could come down to the Slytherin quarters? It’d be easier to show you one, underwater.” He looked over at Draco, as if asking permission.

“Might as well,” Draco said. “Pansy already caught Granger out in the Common Room. It’s a bit late for anyone to get in too much of a snit over a Pureblood Hufflepuff watching for Merfolk.”

Theo smiled, and squeezed Hannah’s hand. “I’ll show you, later. You’ll love it.”

“We should get going,” Hannah said. “We’re meeting up with a few friends. I’m so glad we ran into you two.”

“Same, Hannah,” Hermione said. “Have fun.”

They watched Hannah and Theo walk away.

Draco shook his head. “I’m the bloody poster child for inter-House relationships. My father would have my head.”

“Theo really looks up to you.”

“I don’t exactly need the added pressure,” Draco said.

“I think it’s nice,” Hermione said. She wiggled her toes in the water. “I should probably head in, myself. I’m getting chilly in these wet things.”

“Need help getting out of them?”

“Oh, shut up.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let's talk about fluff.
> 
> Fluff is, like smut, one of the most popular fanfic "tropes." (I hesitate even to say trope here, because it's an entire category/mood of writing, rather than a somewhat predictable-but-enjoyable narrative sequence?) Fluff, like smut, is also pretty thoroughly ignored in a lot of spaces dedicated to "serious" or "literary" writing, such as a lot of MFA programs. 
> 
> On the surface, this makes sense. MFA programs are generally expected to cultivate a fairly literary, highbrow approach to writing. It's not that writing about sex or domestic fluff for entertainment doesn't have merit to readers, but it could be considered outside the purview of what MFA writers are hoping to do with their craft.
> 
> Except that not only does this box MFA writers up pretty tight (one of the most successful writers from my year is a genre author, which is yet another field of writing that gets the short stick in most workshop discussions), but I'm finding myself increasingly of the opinion that this doesn't serve the stories as well, either. I've mentioned before in endnotes that sex is a significant part of many people/characters' relationship to loved ones/intimacy/identity, so it should be worth discussing in more detail for lit. Fluff, with its depiction of quiet, romantic domesticity, can be filler, but it can also be the quintessential "show, don't tell" mechanic to develop a believable relationship on the page. The question is how to use quieter, low-conflict moments in a way that strengthens character and doesn't sacrifice too much of the tension and momentum of the overall plot. In other words, writing fluff well seems to me to be a valuable technique to learn.
> 
> I learned a ton about writing by going through an MFA program. Writing fic has also been a much more fresh and surprising experience than I would have anticipated in terms of what I'm continuing to learn how to do. I'm incorporating more into my understanding of the tools and techniques that go into the craft side of writing.


	32. Hogsmeade

The Room of Requirement had been empty for days. Draco knew he should be working on the Cabinet. He’d hit another wall, and the stress and isolation and dank surroundings didn’t make it easier to drag himself out for another punishing session of spellwork. He would work on it, he promised himself. He’d just research it first, in the library with Granger writing essays nearby. He’d go back to it soon.

He was finding himself, more and more often, hanging around more people than he could remember since the train ride at the very beginning of the year. It was good, even if at times the company was wildly off his usual standard.

He even made it out on the spring Hogsmeade trip. He got Granger all to himself long enough to pore through elegant supplies at Flourish & Blotts together and buy her the disgusting salty caramels she liked at Honeydukes, but Granger made it clear that she wanted the two of them to meet up with Potter and Weasley at the Three Broomsticks. Potter insisted on getting the first round of drinks, and they all hurried to claim some open seating near the hearth while they waited for the order to be ready. Granger grabbed a corner spot on a couch, and Draco sat next to her.

Weasley plopped down on a leather ottoman across from Granger, apparently ill-tempered even about the prospect of sharing a piece of furniture with Draco. Granger removed her feet from the ottoman and crossed her legs under her to make room for him, and Weasley spread out. His elbow jutted out inches away from Granger’s knee.

Draco glared at him, then shifted his attention.

“Granger, don’t twist yourself into a pretzel. Give those pretty feet here.”

She stretched her legs out so her feet were in his lap and pursed her lips. “Don’t be an ass.”

He put a hand to his chest in mock dismay. “You wound me.”

“Quit with the theatrics,” Ron grumbled. “I thought you prided yourself on being so bloody subtle. You’re with her. We’ve heard. You don’t need to go on about it.”

“I’m not the one who all but sat in Granger’s lap.”

“And I’m not the one who still can’t bring himself to call Hermione by her own name. Why she puts up with you, I’ll never know.”

Granger curled one of her feet back in under her. She tried to pull the other back, but Draco had a hand clamped around her ankle and wouldn’t let go. 

“Can you stop it?” she said, looking between both of them. “All I want is a drink out with you. Why is that so impossible?”

“He’s just trying to rile you, Ron,” Harry said quietly. “Don’t give him the satisfaction. If Malfoy can’t keep a civil tongue in his head, it’s only going to reflect badly on him.”

Weasley made a “humph” noise and stuck his feet out a few inches further. 

When he and Potter left to collect the drinks, Draco circled a thumb around Granger’s ankle bone. “Does it bother you, what I call you?”

She flexed her foot, nudging her toes against his stomach affectionately. “I would have told you, if it did. They’re used to having to protect me from you. It’s easier for them to look for what might be going wrong. I know it doesn’t feel like it, but I can tell they’re trying. Will you try, too?”

Draco met her eyes and sighed. “You are really difficult sometimes, you know that?”

When Potter and Weasley returned with a tray of glasses and a few plates of fries and onion rings, Draco sipped his drink and cleared his throat.

“How’s business at your brothers’ shop?”

“Fine.”

Draco gave Hermione a sidelong look before continuing, keeping his tone measured and polite. “I imagine it must be. They certainly chose the right industry to invest their talents in.”

Both Potter and Weasley were eyeing him suspiciously now. Draco wrinkled his nose over his drink.

“We are talking about Fred and George Weasley, yes? Have I tripped into a delicate subject? I’d imagined no one in your family was surprised that the twins would open a joke shop.”

“They weren’t,” Ron said. “You’ve never said a good word about a single member of my family. I’m surprised a snob like you deigned to notice my brothers.”

“I have a sense of humor,” Draco said. “And I doubt Fred and George escaped anyone’s attention. I thought the fireworks display last year was some of their best work.”

Potter snorted. “I’ll do you one better, although admittedly they didn’t realize how brilliant they were being at the time. Do you remember Professor Quirrell, back in first year? Purple turban?”

Draco tried to remember. “He stuttered.”

“Fred and George poked fun at him. There was one day when it snowed a ton, and they were enchanting snowballs to hit him in the back of the head,” Potter said. His eyes crinkled at the memory, and Weasley was grinning, too. Draco didn’t see what was so genius about that particular prank.

“I suppose you had to see it,” he said drily.

Potter shook his head, clearly trying not to laugh. Weasley’s knees bounced in anticipation for Potter to get to the punchline. “We found out at the end of the year, Quirrell had Voldemort on the back of his head the whole time. Fred and George were pummeling the Dark Lord himself in the face.”

Both boys burst out laughing.

Draco’s stomach lurched. “You’re having me on.”

Hermione looked proud. “They’re not. I was there, too. Well, Ron got hurt, so I was back with him. Harry’s the only one who saw under the turban, at the end. But still.”

“And this is funny to you?”

Weasley gave him a smug look. “Gryffindors are brave.”

“Gryffindors are fucking insane.”

Potter and Weasley exchanged a look.

“We’ll take it,” they said in unison, and cracked up again.

Draco looked at Granger, incredulous.

She smirked. “You think the Slytherins have exclusive rights to black humor?”

“Gods, they were legends, though,” Weasley said. “Hogwarts isn’t going to see anyone like that again.”

“I don’t know,” said Potter. “Sirius said he and my dad were the main ones hatching schemes, back in the day. Maybe one day there’ll be a new set of kids marauding around the place.”

Weasley smiled.

Draco frowned. “Sirius Black?”

“Yeah.”

“What’s he to do with you?”

“He was my godfather, if you must know,” Potter said stiffly.

Granger touched Draco’s arm. “Draco, I always forget. He was your cousin, right?”

“We weren’t close.” 

Potter and Weasley drew up even further. Draco thought he saw Potter’s throat work. 

“I didn’t mean it like that,” Draco said. “There were rifts in the family before I came along. My mother spoke fondly of him. I would have liked to have known him. It just didn’t have a chance to happen.”

Potter relaxed somewhat. “He was a good man.”

“Thank you.”

“For what?” Weasley said.

Draco raised his eyebrows. “Neither of you has ever had a good word for anyone in my family before, either.”

Potter and Weasley shifted. Draco drummed his fingers against the sweating glass in his hand.

“Have any of you noticed that Moaning Myrtle’s acting strange?” Granger said, breaking the silence.

All three boys looked at each other. 

“Er, I hate to break it to you, Hermione,” Potter said. “Moaning Myrtle’s always been weird. Remember when she tried to get a look at me in the bubble bath, fourth year?”

“Shy, Potter?” Draco said. 

“I don’t need someone who’s been dead Godric knows how long checking out my bits.”

Draco stretched. “The poor mite’s been stuck in a bathroom for decades. The least you could do is give her a show.”

“You would,” Hermione muttered.

“Don’t worry, love, it was long before you.”

“If you’re quite finished,” she said. “I meant Myrtle’s different than she used to be. Haven’t any of you noticed?”

“We don’t spend much time in the girls’ bathrooms,” Ron pointed out.

“She doesn’t look like she used to. She’s gone all stretched out. Her voice is wrong, too. It’s all gravelly and garbled. You can hardly understand her anymore. Sometimes she’s talking, and her mouth doesn’t match up with her voice.”

Potter snickered. “Like a bad videotape.”

“Exactly!”

“A bad what?” Draco said.

Potter waved a hand. “It’s a Muggle thing.”

“Ghosts don’t disintegrate like that,” Granger said. “Something’s happening.”

“Do you think it has anything to do with what you did to her?” Draco said. 

Granger laughed. “Flattering as it is that you’d think I’m powerful enough to kill a ghost, no, I doubt it. Listen. We’ve thought for ages that ghosts are the spirits of dead people--their souls. But now I’m not sure that’s right at all. I think it’s their minds.” She looked at them all expectantly.

“Are we supposed to get something from that?” Potter said after a moment. “Because I don’t have a clue what you’re talking about.” 

“For one thing, it would explain more about why some people become ghosts and others don’t. Like your parents, Harry.”

Potter looked at Draco and bristled. “Can we not talk about my parents right now, Hermione?”

Hermione winced. “Sorry,” she said. “But you get what I’m saying. It wouldn’t have anything to do with emotions, or--or anything like that. I’ve wondered for a while why nearly all the ghosts in Hogwarts lived in roughly the same era. I’ve been reading, and all the texts on ghosts say someone is much more likely to become a ghost if they had a strong fear of death, and possessed an extraordinarily strong connection to the place they’d come to haunt.”

“So?” said Draco.

“So what if becoming a ghost was by design? Immortality was all the rage in the same rough time period that the Hogwarts ghosts date back to. Nicolas Flamel invented the Philosopher’s stone, but what if there were other ways to prolong a sort of life indefinitely? People who were involved in violent movements, like the Bloody Baron, or Nearly Headless Nick, might have taken precautions to restore a part of their mind, even after their body died.”

“How would that even be possible?” Harry said.

“Like a familiar?” Draco said. “Didn’t they used to teach students to put their minds in an animal?”

“Draco, thank you, finally someone’s actually cracked open their copy of  _ Hogwarts: A History _ ,” Hermione said. “It’s archaic magic, to be sure. No one practices it anymore, although interestingly enough, it’s why students can still bring cats and toads, as well as owls, in the official rules.”

“That was only for brief extra-corporeal excursions, though,” Draco said. “Even if you could sustain it, you wouldn’t manifest an apparition like a ghost. And it would only last until the animal died, not for hundreds of years. It’s a pretty theory, but it doesn’t hold water.”

“You’re not letting me finish,” Hermione said. “Of course you couldn’t put yourself in an animal indefinitely, I'm not daft. What if, instead, you could sort of put a part of yourself into something inanimate, that wouldn’t decompose over time? Something personal, intimate even, so it would feel like an extension of your body. Your wand, for instance. You’d be interred with it, no other witch or wizard would be likely to tamper with it out of respect for the dead, and as long as it was intact, it could sort of trick your mind into believing you weren’t really dead. The object would serve as your body. I’d bet you fifty Galleons all the ghosts haunting Hogwarts are buried on the property. The ghosts’ appearance could be caused by low-level residual magic still running through their wands.”

“Bloody hell,” said Ron.

“How long have you been studying this?” Draco said.

“About six months, off and on? It was some of our conversations about souls that got me interested, and I sort of fell down a rabbit hole, reading.”

“What does any of this have to do with Moaning Myrtle, though?” Ron said. “She wasn’t born in the 1300s, or whenever. She was only 13 or 14 when she died. Even you weren’t bright enough at that age to practice magic to store your mind somewhere, and there’s no bloody way Myrtle was smarter than you.”

“That’s the bit that concerns me,” Hermione said. “I haven’t figured things out to my satisfaction yet. I need to do more research. But I thought talking it over with all of you might help. She wasn’t tied to a wand. Her mind, if that’s what it was, was bound up in Tom Riddle’s diary, second year. I was Petrified in the hospital wing when some of the big things happened, but Ron and Harry saw more of what was going on in the Chamber.”

“Why involve me?” Draco said, a warning note in his voice. “I was never in the Chamber.”

She met his eyes. There was tenderness in her voice. “You know more Dark magic than any of us.” 

“If she was bound to the diary,” Potter said, “why didn’t she disappear when it was destroyed?”

“That was the first thing I wanted to check with you,” she said. “Are you absolutely sure you destroyed it?”

“Completely. Stabbed it with a Basilisk fang. It bled. It wasn’t pleasant. It came out of the Chamber with me, in the end. Dumbledore still has it.”

“Do you find yourself in the possession of a Basilisk fang often, Potter?”

Ron grunted. “That or something like it. Werewolves, Dementors, bit of a mix. You’re usually somewhere in the background, too, pissing and whining and generally making messes Harry’s got to clean up.”

“Lucky he’s got you then,” Draco snapped. “Swabbing up other people’s piss sounds about like the lot I’d expect for you in life. You must have plenty to teach him.”

“That’s it,” Ron said. “I’ve had enough of this sodding arsehole. Harry, you coming?”

“Don’t trouble yourself,” Draco sneered. He gathered his cloak and Granger’s bags, opened his pouch, and scattered a handful of coins over the ottoman where Ron sat. “Potter, I’m afraid I can’t accept your hospitality after all. Since my company is so taxing, I insist on at least paying for the fare. Have a second pour, Weasley, if you want one. My treat.” 

He stalked out. To his mild surprise, and much more considerable pleasure, Granger caught up with him before he was more than halfway down the row of shops. Her face was set.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “He was out of line.”

“You don’t have anything to apologize for.”

“It’s going to get better.”

“I don’t need for it to,” Draco said. “Don’t fool yourself into thinking the Weasel and I are ever going to be cordial. We have to play at being equals while we’re in school, but as soon as we’re out, I won’t have to lower myself to his social circle again, and he knows it.”

“I’m in his social circle.”

He creased his forehead. “If that’s where you decide to contain yourself. Your station’s higher than you give yourself credit for.”

“Oh, because I’ve got you to smooth the way?”

“Nothing so fanciful. Weasley gets along because he’s Potter’s best friend. You’ve got the merit to shine in your own right. You’ll want to fly, sooner or later. If Weasley, and maybe even Potter, can’t deal with you outpacing them someday, they’ll lose you.”

It was the wrong thing to say. Her face contorted with anger.

“Never. If you think I’d abandon my friends for glory, you don’t know me at all.”

Draco put his hands in his pockets and picked up his pace. She quickened her steps to keep up with him, and he felt another little knot of tension ease. “If they have half a brain between them, they won’t let it happen,” he conceded. “You were going to say more about Myrtle, before we were so rudely interrupted.”

For a moment, he wondered if she was still too irritated to answer. She must have decided, though, that she’d rather talk about what she’d learned than keep holding his dislike of a certain pack of gingers over his head.

“Harry’s sort of right. If Myrtle’s mind was contained to the diary, she should have unraveled when it was destroyed. I’ve only been able to think of one solid link between the end of second year and now,” she said. “Voldemort.”

Draco cringed. 

Granger didn’t seem to notice. “Harry saw Voldemort, in the Chamber. Or a version of him, at least. The diary was his, back when he was still only Tom Riddle. Hardly only, I should say, he was shockingly powerful, even then. But now that he’s back--”

“He’s been back,” Draco said curtly. “I don’t see why he’d have anything to do with a school ghost.”

“Because of you.”

Draco shook his head, more in protest than convincing denial. “That doesn’t sound right. That can’t be right. I’ve checked my mind, with Snape. It’s clean. He didn’t--he can’t reach in, from this distance.”

“You’re carrying around his magic, all the time. She might respond to that,” she said. “She’s sensitive to you, isn’t she? She shows up when you’re around?”

He had been seeing the ghost more often, although he’d tried not to pay too close attention. The image came to him, unbidden. His body immolated in invisible flame, the Mark glowing brightest. All the creatures that existed on the edges of what felt like reality, the ghosts and the blood-mouthed Thestrals, turning toward him, hovering like moths.

“If she does, try not to engage with her,” Granger said. “Don’t tell her anything.”

“Do you think I’m sitting around in bathrooms, pouring my heart out to a moping ghost?”

“I’m just telling you it’s wise to be careful.”

“You want to talk about  _ careful _ ? How much of all this would you have told the others? Watch how openly you talk about any of this. I’d prefer if you left me out of it altogether.”

“I plan to tell Harry and Ron that Moaning Myrtle might be an important sign to watch. I’m not sure why or how she’s linked to Voldemort, but if her decline is in any way associated with his power, we can’t afford to miss anything.” 

“Noted,” Draco said. “I’ll keep my eyes peeled for the unbelievably subtle signs that certain well-known forces are gaining power.” He grasped at the door handle of the nearest shop, which happened to be a milliner’s. “Do you like hats? At all? They must have invented something that can cover even your hair. I will buy you literally anything you want if you promise to change the subject.”

Granger spotted her friends heading into Zonko’s Joke Shop later on and left Draco to his own devices. He passed by Spintwitches to see if the spring broom models had anything interesting to offer, but he didn’t bother going inside. There wasn’t much time for things like flying, anymore. 

Dogweed and Deathcap held his attention for longer. The herbology shop owners prided themselves on maintaining ample stores of rare and exotic specimens. A charming smile, a question or two and a few minutes of nodding politely while Thymophylla waxed on about Mongolian fanged geranium or the lunar cycle of fluxweed bloom, and he could slip most of the ingredients for Polyjuice among sundry innocuous purchases without anyone being the wiser. Crabbe and Goyle weren’t much use to him anymore, but they could at least serve as lookouts if he wanted to snatch an uninterrupted hour to work on the Cabinet. A few practice brews, and practice subjects, could also ensure that his skill level was where he needed it, if he should have to prepare a dose for himself.

Draco didn’t see Granger again until the end of the afternoon. He’d wondered if she’d choose to join him on one of the carriages back to Hogwarts, but when she spotted him, she handed her bags to Potter and gestured for him and Weasley to wait. She’d be walking back with the pair of them, then.

She hurried over to him.

“Sorry, we spent a long time in Zonko’s, and then when we got out I didn’t see you, and Ron wanted to go to Sugarwings for ice cream.”

“It’s fine.”

She cocked her head. “Fine fine, or upset but don’t want to talk about it fine?”

“Don’t you ever get tired, being this much of a busybody all the time?” Draco said. “I’m perfectly capable of entertaining myself for a few hours absent your company.”

Her expression didn’t change.

Draco sighed. “I’m ‘fine fine,’ Granger, except for the fact that you’ve now forced me to repeat the most inane bit of teen girl patois I’ve heard in ages. I don’t suppose you’d be interested in a carriage ride?” he added.

Granger made an apologetic face. “I’ve already said I’d go with Harry and Ron.”

Draco waved a hand. “I assumed as much.”

“Can I come see you, tonight?”

Draco’s throat was tight with wanting at the thought of it, but it was pointless. “How do you expect to tiptoe past everyone in the Common Room, not to mention my roommates?”

Granger gave him a mischievous smile. “Don’t you worry your cute blond head about that.” She kissed him on the cheek and went back to join her friends for the walk to the castle.

He didn’t. Specifically, he discarded the fact that she’d mentioned it at all. The nightmares were coming back, maybe stemming from his guilt over neglecting his task. It would be enough trouble getting to sleep without wishing she was there.

Lying in bed that night, he heard the whisper of the bed curtains and felt the press of her hand on the mattress before he saw her. It was dark, but not that dark. Draco sat up in alarm at the unknown presence, and then there was a shimmer, and Granger was standing at the edge of his bed.

“What are you--”

“Ssh,” Granger whispered. She pulled out her wand. “ _ Muffliato _ .”

“Granger, what are you doing here? How?” Draco grasped at his night table until he found his wand and cast a Lumos to prove to himself that she was here.

“I told you I had my ways.” She dropped a heavy cloth over the blankets. “Your roommates can’t notice what they can’t see. Or hear, now, although we should still keep our voices down.”

Draco gaped. “Where in the hell did you get an invisibility cloak?”

“Harry’s had it since first year. We all use it from time to time, when we need to be discreet. I borrowed it off him. Well, I’ll ask when I return it, and then it’ll count as borrowing.”

“Merlin’s hairy tits.” Draco pulled his legs back, almost afraid to touch the cloak.

Granger laughed softly. “You’d think you were the one who hasn’t grown up around magic all his life. It’s an invisibility cloak, Draco, it’s not going to bite you.”

“It’s not that.” Draco tried to collect himself. He didn't know where to put his hands. “Do you have any concept--any idea at all--what an item like this is worth?”

She shrugged. “Harry didn’t buy it. It was part of his inheritance. I suppose it could be worth something.”

“For all that you’re the best in your year, you can be so bloody thick sometimes,” Draco grumbled. He reached for the cloak, but habit stopped his fingers before he touched the fabric. His voice came out small. “Can I hold it?”

Granger frowned. “Sure. Why not?”

Draco touched the cloth reverently, then draped it over his hand. His own hand disappeared from his view, and the flutter of wonder stirred in his heart. “My father would never let me touch something this precious. He took me to auctions or appraiser’s visits, sometimes, so I could learn the business. Look, don’t touch. There were beautiful things, sometimes. You saw them and you just wanted--but most of those items are worth more than every bone in your whole body, so you have to be respectful and keep still.” His voice took on a dreamlike tone by the end, lost in memories. He let the shimmering fabric slide over his hands.

“Did he hurt you?”

The concern in her voice snapped him back to the present. “Did he--No. It was just a thing he said. To get me to behave.” He peered at the invisibility cloak more closely, reaching back in his mind for the quality indicators and the list of numbers his father had drilled into him. “Let’s see. Quite large. A touch threadbare here and here, and there’s old stains all over the hems, although some of those may still come out with careful treatment. The weave is quite nice, and feel the stitching on the hem. That’s unicorn hair. That’s why it had to be hand-sewn. You can’t use any iron tools or machines on it, or you’ll lose the magic. Then you need to account for the rarity.”

Granger rolled her eyes. “Do you and the cloak need a little privacy?”

He poked her in the side. “I’d rather have you in my bed. I thought you might like to know that you’ve been wearing a 5,000-Galleon garment around like a dressing gown.”

Now it was her turn to look shocked. “I beg your pardon?”

“Based on the somewhat shabby condition, that’s what I expect the Malfoys would aim for as a buying price. If it refurbishes well, my father should be able to get double that for it, easily, although he’d probably be hoping for 20,000.”

“Oh, shit.”

He wrapped his arms around her and nuzzled his nose against her shoulder. “Someone has more of a taste for nice things than they let on.”

She grinned. “Don’t be so shocked. I’m dating you, aren’t I? Dropping 5,000 Galleons to come see you sounds about right.”

Draco was more pleased, even touched, than he would have expected. She said it so offhand, and it caught him off-guard. He didn’t exactly know what to say in response, although it turned out he didn’t need to say anything at all.

Granger brushed a strand of hair back from his forehead before she kissed him. Her lips were soft against his mouth, but assured. This wasn’t an early, inquisitive kiss, testing his response. She led the kiss, switching from light kisses at the corner of his mouth to deeper, firmer connection as the mood struck her. She touched her tongue to his and hummed her approval when he twisted his fingers in the underside of her hair. Draco got the not-unpleasant impression that, should he go along with it, she’d satisfy herself on him without him having to do much but let her take him.

He pulled his shirt over his head. Granger cuddled in closer, rubbing his back in slow, even strokes. Draco was always aware of where his Mark touched her. Granger didn’t seem to pay it any mind, but he slid his other hand between his forearm and her back anyway. He couldn't let his guard down like this in front of anyone, anymore. He wanted any part of him in contact with her to be purely him.

Her hand curved over his backside, and her thumb hooked the waistband of his pajama pants, but Draco found that he wasn’t quite ready yet. He wanted more of that assured feeling first, the pleasure of knowing she felt so comfortable with his body. That he was wanted and worth something even when all he was doing was lying back and allowing himself to be touched.

“Can I have a back rub?”

Granger pulled back and laughed quietly. “You are such a little prince, you know that?”

He tilted his chin at a lofty angle. “I want one.”

She sighed in pretend annoyance. “Roll over, then.”

Draco made himself comfortable, adding an extra fluff of the pillow before settling into position. She didn’t have to understand everything. It was better, even, for her to chalk certain moments up to him indulging himself than catch the note of hunger in his voice. 

Her hands slid up his back, fingers reaching to find the knots. There was a thing Granger did sometimes that Draco liked, making a sort of butterfly out of her hands and using the heels of her hands on either side of his spine to crack his back. She leaned hard into him when she did this, forcing his breath out in puffs.

“Easy on the goods,” he said.

“Baby.”

“Yes?”

He could almost hear her eye roll. “I meant of course, darling, I’ll try to be more delicate.”

Draco smiled into the pillow. Granger was working a couple knots with her thumbs, hard but not painfully so. Her fingers were lighter, and all of him felt nice and loose and warm as she massaged her way down from his shoulders to the small of his back.

He felt the mattress shift again as she resettled her weight. She was sitting on his backside, legs on either side. She leaned forward to dig her elbows into a couple stubborn knots, then lay down on his back. Draco felt bare skin. She wasn’t wearing her shirt anymore, either. Granger bit his shoulder, kissed it, kissed his neck. He kept his eyes closed.

“Done already?”

“I hope not,” she murmured in his ear. “I'm pretty sure it's my turn.”

A few minutes later, and some rustling as they found the position that suited them for this or that, and he was the one over her, holding her hands over her head as he kissed her. She only had her knickers on, and he was rubbing naked against them, feeling the fabric slide more easily until she was squirming to get a hand free to pull them off. He held her wrists a little tighter.

“Something you need?”

“Draco, you bloody prat,” she gasped.

“Not your best, as pet names go.” He pushed against her again. She made a high whimper. “That, on the other hand, is excellent. Make all the noises like that you want.”

“Make me.”

He couldn’t get her underwear off without letting go of her, so he freed her hands. She reached for the back of his neck and his ribs, and he slid inside her. He thought she’d want him to take it slow and easy, but she wrapped a leg over him and rolled her hips. Her teeth scraped over his lower lip, and her nails scratched down his sides, and the softness of her went on forever. 

Draco kept moving, trying to keep up with the impatient surge of her hips without losing himself too quickly into the bright sensation flooding through his head, and he was probably making a stupid face but it didn’t matter because she buried her face in his shoulder and her quick sighs were turning into shaky whimpers and then the breathless nonsense she babbled when her mind was trying to make sense of the feeling in her body.

“You--don’t--gods--now.”

Not a sentence, not an anything, but it made perfect sense anyway. Draco almost laughed at the stupid luck of it all, and the bliss of it, and the strangeness that things like this could happen for him in the midst of everything. 

When he came, it happened so hard that he started shivering. She tried to shift position, but he clung to her. Without her body to ground him, he thought he might fly apart. 

She held him until he breathed steadily again. Her fingers curled over the nape of his neck.

“I wish I didn’t have to go.”

“Don’t, yet.” 

Her eyes were dark, pupils still blown wide. “It feels good, here.”

“Sleep a little. I’ll wake you.”

She groaned. “If you’re going to twist my arm.”

He rolled behind her to spoon her. She reached back and touched a hand to his cheek.

“I love you,” she whispered, already sounding half-asleep, and Draco thought, not for the first time, that there was a growing risk that she would end up breaking him apart, after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tip of the hat to HP Tumblr as an institution for some ideas in this chapter. (I'm not actually on Tumblr myself? But Pinterest is full of good posts.) I got the helpful reminder about Fred and George's unwittingly most daring prank (https://www.pinterest.com/pin/350928995949413157/), and there was an excellent post about the possibility of fads/trends in magic in fantasy works in general, and how characters who grew up with magic might see some variations as outdated or unusual, that I had fun playing with.


	33. Ron

Hermione didn’t know Ron had been poisoned until he was already recovering in the hospital wing.

“What the hell happened?” she demanded, following Harry back into the boys’ ward. “Why didn’t anyone tell me?”

“We are telling you, Hermione,” Harry said.

She rolled her eyes. “Now.”

“Yes, well, we were a bit busy before. You know, finding an antidote. Saving his life. Nothing much.”

“Do you know what poison it was?”

Harry shook his head. “It was in a bottle of wine. Or Slughorn thought it was wine. We cured it with a bezoar.”

An all-purpose antidote, so that wouldn’t be any use. “They’ll test the rest of the wine, though, right?”

“Slughorn dropped the bottle, in the confusion. I don’t think there’s any left.”

“How did this happen?”

“Hermione, I really don’t know,” Harry said. 

Slughorn himself was standing by Ron’s bedside, along with Madame Pomfrey and Dumbledore, who held a gaudily wrapped bottle in his hand. Hermione marched up to the Potions professor, eyes blazing.

“Will someone kindly inform me what on earth happened here?”

Slughorn twisted his hands. “Now, now, my dear, there’s no use getting upset.”

“Oh no? When, then? Would he have had to actually die before I’m permitted any demonstration of emotion?” Hermione said.

“I’m inclined to agree with Miss Granger,” Professor McGonagall said, although her voice was more measured. “This is a serious situation, and one that merits our full attention and concern. I’m sure we can all agree Potter’s actions were heroic, but why were they necessary?”

“Ron had another potion in his system,” Harry said. “A love potion. Could it have mixed badly, somehow? Caused the effect?”

Madame Pomfrey pursed her lips. “Doubtful. People brewing love potions almost always intend the recipient to be fairly drunk, as well.”

“Not to mention that an experienced nose detects rather more than a trace of poison, along with more subtle notes of licorice and cherry,” Dumbledore said mildly. “Horace, I confess myself surprised you didn’t notice it, yourself.”

Slughorn pulled at his collar. He looked sweaty and uncomfortable. “I’ve been fighting a cold. These drafts in the castle. The adjustment to class life after retirement takes its toll on the immune system.”

“I suppose a hot toddy, or several, benefits the cold as well as the stress,” McGonagall said, voice clipped.

Dumbledore raised a bushy pair of eyebrows. “I often find the effect both medicinal and soothing. It was after hours, after all. Admittedly, it is especially important in a potioneer’s quarters to maintain separate storage spaces for elixirs that are dangerous to consume.”

“I must have misplaced it,” Slughorn stammered.

“I suspect it had no permanent home in your office at all. This appears to be a gift, Horace. Do you remember who gave it to you?”

Slughorn nodded gratefully, then shook his head, apparently confused about what to respond to first. “I’d been meaning to give it as a gift, myself.”

“To whom, if I might ask?”

“To you, Headmaster,” Slughorn admitted. 

Hermione wanted to ask why he’d opened the bottle for a pair of students, one of them drugged, if it was supposed to be a gift for Dumbledore, but before she could speak, a breathless, quavering, yet irritatingly loud voice echoed through the ward.

“Where’s my Won-Won? Has he been asking for me?” Lavender Brown pushed the professors aside and looked like she was considering attempting a swoon at Ron’s feet, but both seats by Ron’s side were occupied, blocking her from a clear avenue for a soft landing. She dropped her arms awkwardly by her sides instead. Then she noticed Hermione. “What’s she doing here?”

“I could ask you the same question,” Hermione said, rising to her feet.

“I happen to be his girlfriend,” Lavender said.

“And I happen to be his--friend,” Hermione finished weakly, wishing there was a better word. Six years. At least four brushes with death, not even counting the second Triwizard Trial, which at least had been supervised. Countless meals and jokes and evenings playing wizard chess or arguing in the comfortable way that meant no one was really angry. All that closeness, but because Hermione wasn’t snogging him all over the castle, this gasping little tart thought she outranked her.

“Don’t make me laugh,” Lavender said. “You haven’t spoken in weeks.”

A flare of hurt and anger rose like bile. Hermione could barely listen to what Lavender was saying, although she caught a tail end of something like, “now that he’s all interesting.”

“He’s been poisoned, you daft bimbo!”

Ron shifted and mumbled something.

“See?” Lavender said, still panting, although she hadn’t been running. “He senses my presence.” She put her hands on the edge of the bed, sticking her chest out (for whose benefit Hermione didn’t know, since Ron’s eyes were still shut). “Don’t worry, Won-Won. I’m here.”

“Her...my...knee,” he muttered. “Hermione.”

Hermione couldn’t help a hint of a smug smile as Lavender huffed and stomped out of the room. She took Ron’s hand. “I’m right here.”

Madame Pomfrey, Dumbledore, Harry, and the rest all seemed to have better places to be, so Hermione found herself sitting by Ron’s bedside, his blue eyes fixed on her and looking more alert by the minute. Probably the effects of an enervating potion kicking in.

“You came,” he said.

“Of course I came, you idiot.”

“Thought maybe you’d be too busy making out with Malfoy.”

She winced. “That’s not fair.”

“What’s fair?” Ron grumbled. “You hated each other for years. Suddenly he says he’s changed, and you’ve got more time for him than the people who have been around the whole time.”

“I’m always going to have time for you and Harry. You’re my best friends. You’re two of the most important people in the world to me.”

“You don’t need to. You know. Do all that work, to make it easy. I know when I’ve lost.”

“Why does it have to be about winning and losing?” Hermione said.

Ron looked at her. “Come on, Hermione.”

She fidgeted. “Things with us are the same as they’ve always been.”

“Yeah. Exactly.”

He looked so forlorn, with the sheet pulled tight over his chest and his hands folded over the crisp, smooth whiteness. Hermione scraped the chair forward, then shook her head.

“Scoot.”

“What?”

“Budge over.” She lay on her back next to him, her on top of the covers and him under. She could feel him relax.

They spoke at the same time.

“It’s just that--” Hermione began, just as Ron said, “You never thought--?”

Ron leaned back into the pillow. “You go first.”

“You steady me,” she said. “And I push you. We’re good for each other in that way.”

He laced his fingers into hers. She squeezed his hand back and let him flop both their hands to rest at the bottom of her rib cage.

“We balance each other out, yeah,” Ron said.

“Do you think that’s the right way for us to be, though? If we were a couple? What if what I needed was for the person closest to me to tell me it was okay for me to push myself as far as I can, instead of needing me to settle down? And you’d get sick of being pushed all the time, like you’re never good enough.”

“You don’t know it would be like that. We haven’t tried it.”

“No, we haven’t.”

“We work as friends, don't we?”

“We do. The best.”

“And you know me a lot better than Lav.”

“Gods,” Hermione said. “Don’t tell me she’s got you calling her nicknames, too.”

Ron shifted. His head tipped closer to hers. Hermione felt his hair brush against her forehead. She reached over with her free hand and pulled some of it through her fingers.

“You really should get this cut. You’re getting shaggy.”

“Yeah. I should--” His eyes flicked lower, and then he closed the last inch between them and kissed her.

It wasn’t a bad kiss. It felt...nice. Ron smelled like he always did, like grass and wool and the castile soap Molly Weasley made in colossal batches for the family. His lips were dry, but soft enough. There was nothing to make Hermione want to flinch back from him. It didn’t feel wrong or shocking or unnatural. She just wasn’t terribly curious about what he might do next. 

He tried parting his lips more, encompassing more of her closed mouth, but when she didn’t move, he pulled back and rolled to lie on his back again, face stiff. “You didn’t like it.”

“Ron, no. It was. It’s not that.”

“I don’t make you feel like he does.”

Hermione looked over at him. It wasn’t like Ron to be this direct about anything emotional. He must have been mulling over this for weeks. Probably since he found out. Their fingers were still intertwined over her stomach. “No,” she said.

She saw him swallow hard. She opened her mouth first.

“Do I make you feel the way I make him feel?”

“I don’t want to talk about how your boyfriend feels.”

“So forget him.”

“I was trying to, a minute ago.”

“I mean, tell me what you think it would be like, with us. Would you tell me your secrets first, and not Harry? Would you feel better about yourself when you were around me? Would we make each other feel special, or would we just slip from a comfortable friendship to something else we hoped would be comfortable, too?”

“I don’t know,” Ron said. “I just thought we’d pick each other, at some point, when it came to it. It was always there, in the back of my mind.”

“But that's just it. The back of your mind shouldn't be good enough, for either of us.”

Ron tried to glower at her, but the exhaustion was too plain on his face. There were shadows under his eyes. “Why do you always have to make things so difficult? Why can’t you let it be easy?”

Hermione’s chest ached. “I’m not trying to be. I think, maybe, things are only easy for me when the other person doesn't mind that I'm difficult.”

She was worried for a moment that he would cry. He was looking at the ceiling, and his fingers clamped around hers. Finally, he sighed.

“Malfoy's really taken it on himself, hasn't he? Are you like this with him all the time, too?”

She managed a shaky laugh. “For the most part, yes. It's pretty punishing.”

“Better be,” he muttered. “That git is long overdue to get taken down several pegs.”

“I can see that,” Hermione said. “Although he’s really not as bad as he seemed.”

“Bloody hell, Hermione, enough. I’m tired of fighting.”

“Me too.”

He had his eyes closed now. “Although if the bastard ever loses sight of how good he has it, I'll beat the daylights out of him.”

Hermione squeezed his hand. “You should sleep.” She smoothed his hair back and kissed his forehead. His lips flickered up, but otherwise he didn’t move.

Ron spent the next few evenings in the hospital wing, for rest and observation. The first morning he was out, he shot Draco a nasty stare when Draco paused by the Gryffindor table.

“You should get more rest, Weasley, you look dreadful,” Draco said. “Granger, good morning.”

“Would be a better one if I didn’t have a Slytherin putting me off my breakfast,” Ron said.

“Have you ever woken up with a song stuck in your head, Granger? I’ve got one I can’t seem to shake. It’s incredibly distracting.”

“Have you tried singing it through?” Hermione said. “That sometimes helps.”

“It’s a thought.” 

“Sixth verse. Three times.”

He nodded, confirming he’d understood which floor and what time to meet her and go together to the DA meeting, and headed for the Slytherin table.

Hermione turned to Ron. “What happened there?”

“It’s Malfoy,” Ron said.

“But you said you were tired of fighting. You were going to back down, at least a bit.”

“When did I say that?”

“The night you ended up in the hospital wing,” Hermione said. “Don’t you remember?”

Ron widened his eyes. “Whatever potion Romilda put on me, must’ve been strong stuff. I don’t remember anything.”

Hermione’s protests and prompting over the next several minutes didn’t do anything to jog his memory, either.

“You talked,” she said helplessly. “We had an entire conversation. You’re saying you don’t remember anything from that night? Anything at all?”

Ron shook his head.

Hermione dropped her forehead to the table with a thunk and refused to answer any protests of, “What? What did I say? What?” that may have gone swirling over her head. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is one of the chapters where I've lifted some dialogue directly from canon (the movie, in this case). It's such a delightful scene in the movie, and I'm actually really excited about the chance to subvert a girlfriend/actual love interest rivalry in favor of best friendship. My best guy friend in high school meant more to me than pretty much any boyfriend (except the boyfriend I ended up marrying). I like the Golden Trio best as a found family, where romance doesn't add anything to "strengthen" relationships, because they're so bonded already.
> 
> It can sometimes be tough for me to get a good handle on Ron, mostly because the movies did him dirty by giving Movie Hermione most of his strengths as well as her own. The books show him more clearly, to me. Plus I always feel like I get to rediscover him (or any character) by trying to figure out how to get him on the page. He's a good guy. I hope I am doing him justice.


	34. Stargazing

Draco didn’t get into any more arguments with Weasley, or any of Hermione’s friends, really, other than a bit of back-and-forth at DA meetings. She thought it was thanks to her request for him to try to play nice, and Draco was content to let her think that. It wasn’t even a false impression, necessarily. Draco liked seeing her happy. Admittedly, he also liked making sure those louts knew who they were dealing with and he wasn’t prepared to let any girl put him under a gag order, but this was a finer point that wasn’t worth an argument with Granger.

The truer reason why he was holding his end of the uneasy peace was that it didn't do to cut himself out of any potential circle before he understood his options.

If he failed his task, his life was in peril. That much was clear. There was a chance that his father could successfully plead with the Dark Lord for him, but Draco worried the odds were too slim to trust. It would come down to too many factors: how much the Dark Lord needed Lucius, or at least access to the Malfoy estate and coffers, and how badly Draco made a mess of things if he did fail. If the Dark Lord told his parents about the glimpses he'd stolen from Draco's mind, enough to know he was sleeping with a Muggleborn, there could also be a problem of how hard his father would fight for him at all. 

On the other hand, there was a chance he might actually succeed. It was difficult to imagine, but he knew he was smart, and he could feel how close the Cabinet was to being ready. If he did accomplish what he was supposed to do, Dumbledore would be dead. Hogwarts as he knew it would fall. His family might be rewarded by the Dark Lord, or not. Draco didn’t know how well the Dark Lord held himself to favors, once promised. He did know exactly what he was currently worth in those red, snake-like eyes.

What Draco needed to determine was, if he did manage to escape from the Dark Lord’s oversight, whether there was anywhere for him to go.

Dumbledore’s Army, ironically enough, was shaping up to be a more believable option than he ever would have thought. He hadn’t admitted it to Granger in so many words, but her instincts had been good. He’d introduced four of the counterspells he knew in as many weeks of secret meetings. The DA members were throwing themselves into the task, and he’d worked out musical incantations for several more with Padma and Hannah. He got a few nasty looks and under-the-breath comments, but he’d expected to get hexed the second he turned his back. This was nothing.

Even Potter was surprisingly decent. Annoyingly so, really. Draco had to admit that Potter didn’t entirely adopt the ‘glorious leader’ role he’d assumed the Chosen One would leap for as soon as the opportunity presented itself. Not that the professorial attitude Potter favored instead was that much better. He was so bloody sincere about it. Draco kept eyeing him when Potter was working with someone else, trying to catch any hint that Potter was secretly gloating over the power, but he was always just--teaching.

Even with him. Draco would have bet a hundred Galleons that Potter couldn’t resist digging at him if Draco admitted he didn’t have a spell down, but he didn’t. It was like Potter forgot who he was dealing with. All he saw in DA was problems and fixes and practice. 

He came around one afternoon when the group was practicing their Patronus spells. Draco was doing everything the others were, but nothing seemed to be happening. When Potter asked if he needed any pointers, Draco looked away before allowing a subtle nod.

“Let me see you cast one,” Potter said. 

Draco felt stupid. He glared at Potter, but if Potter was making fun of him, there was no sign of it on his face. Draco closed his eyes, concentrating on his memory.

“Expecto patronum.”

When he opened them, there was nothing. Maybe a weak, pale wisp of smoke.

Potter nodded. “It’s a start. My first ones were like that. Just that sort of glowing steam, whatever it is. It takes practice. You need to have a really happy memory, your best, and focus on it hard. Give it another go.”

Draco tried it again, but it was hard to focus on a happy memory while knowing that bloody Potter was watching. He put his wand down. He’d had a nagging question for a while, and it was too embarrassing to talk about with Granger.

“How do you know what your Patronus will be?”

“I’m not sure,” Potter said. “Mine’s a stag because my memory was about my dad, I think. But the others? I dunno. I guess they usually tend to take after the person, a bit. Ron’s loyal and a great friend, so a dog makes sense, and Hermione’s so quick and clever, her otter fits her.”

“Is it like the Sorting? Do you get any choice? Or is everyone inherently some kind of animal?”

“I don’t know,” Potter said again. “You’d have to ask Hermione. She’s the one who likes to dig into all the details behind how spells work.”

“I don’t want a lecture.” He hesitated. “How do you know it won’t be something embarrassing?”

“Like what?”

“Like your mother.”

Potter’s jaw tightened. “Why don’t you keep practicing the spell, Malfoy.”

“Look, everyone says once you cast a Patronus, it doesn’t change. You’re stuck with what you get.”

“Right.”

“So what happens if mine’s wrong?” Draco crossed his arms and looked away. “What if the magic picks up on the wrong part of me? I’d rather skip the spell than have to cast some stupid familiar for the rest of my life.”

“It’s really not a big deal, Malfoy. Different people get different Patronuses. I wouldn’t fancy a hare, but Luna loves hers. It all just seems to work out.”

“I’m not as keen to trust the process. I’ve had magic assign me an animal before. I don’t care to repeat the experience. I asked a simple question about what the chances were, but if you don’t know, then never mind.”

Potter’s eyes went wide, and his mouth twitched. “Are you asking me--”

“Keep your bloody voice down, Potter, or I swear to you I’ll hex you here and now.”

Potter took his arm and pulled him a few paces away from the others. He lowered his voice. “Are you asking me if your Patronus is going to be a ferret?”

Draco pulled his arm free. “Forget I said anything.”

Potter had his back turned to the others, which was good, because he was actually laughing now. The thing was, he was clearly still trying to keep it down, and his face didn’t have the mocking expression Draco would have expected if he was talking about this with someone like Blaise. 

“Mate, no wonder you’re not casting much. I wouldn’t either, if I were worried about that. Bloody hell.” He held a hand over his mouth, then managed to pull himself together. “I really don’t think it will be. A Patronus is a good thing, a protector. If you hated the sight of it, it’d be hard to cast it at all, yeah? The magic takes its strength from the happiest, best memory you have to offer, not something you’d rather forget.”

“You’d better not be pulling this out of your ass.”

“No, the more I think about it, it couldn’t be. With the way you feel about--about that animal, it’d restrict the spell altogether. It’ll be something else, when you get it.” Harry saw Parvati wave a hand at him, and he patted Draco’s shoulder reflexively. “Keep at it. Let me know if you want me to look at it again, later.”

One night, after he and Hermione finished their hall monitoring shift, they snuck up to the top of the Astronomy Tower instead of heading back to their respective dorms. It was a clear night, with only a sliver of a moon, and there was supposed to be a meteor shower. Hermione insisted on hauling up some musty-smelling sleeping bags from the Lower Observatory, and she had the decency not to say anything when he ended up unrolling his after all and braving the prospect of mildew to keep warm.

“What’s the plan for all this defense training, anyway?” he said.

“They weren’t teaching anything useful in DADA last year,” Hermione said. “It was ridiculous. Treating books as the last word when a war could break out any minute. Harry’s already faced Voldemort enough times to know what it’s like.”

“I know what it’s like to face him, Granger,” Draco said quietly. “That’s why I’m asking. What’s your goal, here? Why are you still calling yourselves Dumbledore’s Army?”

“The Ministry was afraid that Dumbledore was going to build an army of students and overthrow the government.”

“Yes. Granger. I know.” Draco rubbed a hand over his forehead. “You don’t treat it like a joke, though. When you’re doing jinx drills and duels, and calling yourselves an army, you’re going to convince people that you actually mean to fight.”

“What if we do?” Hermione said. 

“You shouldn’t be teaching them how to fight. All these stupid kids are going to think that because they cast a good Stupefy when their friend stood still, they’re ready to take on a Death Eater. You should be teaching them how to run and hide. You’re setting yourself up for a bloodbath.”

“Oh, because getting caught with no defense training whatsoever isn’t? I’m not telling them to charge into Death Eater headquarters with their wands out. This is about having the skills you need. If they can get away, great, they should do that, but it won’t always be possible.”

“That’s not how Potter makes it sound. Or you, either.”

“So you want us to run. How? Only sixth-years are allowed to learn Apparition, or not even then! You’re too young to take the class. You want me to try to teach people to Apparate in a blind panic, and probably bleed out God knows where after they splinch themselves?” Hermione’s eyes were fierce. “Most of us are almost of age. If war’s coming, the Order’s going to need all the forces they can get. Those of us who want to stand and fight when the time comes want to be ready. If the professors here won’t help us, then we’ll take matters into our own hands.”

“Would you stop for a second and listen to yourself?” Draco demanded. “You should see your face. You’re about to start spouting off about the glory of battle any minute. You keep talking about ‘if war comes’ this, or ‘when the time comes.’ It’s already here, Granger. Do you realize why the Dark Lord didn’t kill me? Why he gave me this, instead?”

“Your Occlumency,” Hermione said, her tone softer. “You faced him--you blocked off enough of your mind--”

“I was still more useful to him alive than dead,” Draco said flatly. “I won’t be for much longer. And none of you are.” 

“All the more reason we should stick together, in DA, and the Order, and anywhere else we can. None of us think we’re of any value to the Death Eaters. Voldemort wants Harry, but only to kill him personally. If we scatter because we’re afraid, we might as well all give up now. Supporting each other is the only way we stand any chance.”

“Here’s a question for you. What do you think would happen if you and I broke up?”

“We’re fine.”

“I said if.”

“We’d still be fine,” Hermione said. “We’d still care about each other. We could be civil to each other, even if things didn’t work out.”

“How far do you think that civility extends?” Draco said. “I’m in a tenuous enough position in the bloody club as it is. People would pick sides, and I can assure you they’re not flocking to mine.”

“You don’t need to be friends with everyone in DA to be in the group. It helps, of course, but what we’re doing in DA is about a bigger picture than the state of one couple’s relationship,” she said. She sighed. “How about this. I promise, I will vouch for you to stay, even if we break up and I think you’re even more of an ass than I already do.”

He knew she was trying to lighten the mood, but he couldn’t let it go. “Would you protect me because it fit your sense of justice, or because it’s me?”

“I don’t know, Draco. As a reminder, we’re discussing a situation that doesn’t actually exist. And you’d be safe, either way. Why does it matter what I think?”

_ Because I’ll be left with no one. _ “It does.”

She looked over at him. “I’m not going to abandon you.”

Draco folded his hands over his chest. He didn’t know how to make her understand what he needed her to. She thought an unconditional promise was supposed to make him feel better, when really it unmoored him. How were you supposed to know whether you were worth anything, if the end result was always the same? Love you had access to no matter what happened felt like love given carelessly. The privileges you earned told you your value. He propped himself up, studying her face.

“Tell me a secret.”

“Like what?”

“Anything,” Draco said. “I tell you all kinds of things. There must be something you haven’t told other people.”

“I’m pretty open.”

“I know.” He leaned back again, resting his head on his hands to look up at the stars. “Fine, then. You wear your heart on your sleeve and don’t have a deep, dark anything to confide in me. Even if you did, you would have told Potter and Weasley by now, anyway.”

She shifted, next to him. Draco thought she was waiting for the awkwardness of his question to pass, but then she spoke.

“I might have to curse my parents.”

“What? Why?”

“What I did to Katie, but--everything.” She was quiet for a long time. “They’d be okay, right? If they didn’t know about magic? Or that they even had a daughter. Would Death--” She choked on the word. “Would anyone come for them, even if my parents didn’t have any information to give away?”

He thought of the table, the woman, the masks.  _ Not my father,  _ he thought, feeling cold. “I don’t know.”

“What if I sent them somewhere? They’ve always wanted to go--”

“Don’t tell me,” Draco snapped. “Don’t tell me,” he repeated, more gently. 

He thought he saw her eyes widen for a second.

“You wouldn’t tell anyone.”

“No, but make it impossible.”  He reached for her hand and it was there, waiting for his. His lips were dry. He looked up at the dark sky. A tiny light flashed and died. “We’re in a war, and not everyone in this building with us knows it yet.”

“I’m trying to make them ready.”

“You can’t.”

“I know that.”

The sky lit with enormous, tiny things falling.

When Draco took the reply letter from his owl’s talons, he waited until he could be alone to read it. He didn’t feel especially hopeful about what it would say.

“Draco,” the letter read. “Of course you’ll come home for term break. What an odd suggestion. I’ve been deprived of your company long enough. I’m quite anxious to see you and hear all about what you’ve learned. Your loving, Mother.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been skeptical in the past about the likelihood of a Harry/Draco friendship (although, oddly enough, I've really enjoyed the few Drarry fics I've read, so there's always been a flaw in my assumptions?), but damn. They really do have some chemistry. JK did such a majestic job in making them foils for each other. I kind of like the idea of their simple antagonism maturing into a weird, like/hate, rivalry-respect-quasi-friendship that neither one of them totally understands. I guess that's sort of what happens in the epilogue? (#teamEWE) Draco would definitely need to be on halfway decent terms with Ron, though, or Harry James Loyalty Potter will never go for it, and that's a tougher nut to crack.


	35. A Bit of Rare Magic

Late in the afternoon on the day that Harry took the Felix Felices potion, he burst into the Gryffindor Common Room and gesticulated wildly at Hermione and Ron.

“I’ve got it,” he panted. “The memory. Emergency meeting with Dumbledore. Come quick.”

The three of them ran through the halls to the Headmaster’s office.

“Blast it, what’s he changed it to this time?” Harry said.

“Licorice lolly,” Hermione said, and the door swung open.

Dumbledore looked surprised to see all three of them there, instead of Harry alone, but he took the vial with Slughorn’s wispy, grey memory floating inside and poured it into the Pensieve.

“A Horcrux is an object in which someone conceals part of their soul,” the younger version of Slughorn said in the vision in the basin. “By doing so, you are protected if you are attacked and your body should be destroyed. The part of your soul that is hidden lives on.”

“How does one split his soul, sir?” said Tom Riddle, in his strange, dispassionate, high voice.

“Killing rips the soul apart. It is a violation against nature.”

“Can one only split the soul once? Could it be done, for instance, seven times?”

Ron turned his face away, looking sick. 

“Sir--” Harry began, but Dumbledore waved him into silence. Hermione had never seen the Headmaster look so old. He looked around the room, almost as if bewildered to find himself there, before collapsing into a chair.

“This is beyond anything I’d imagined,” he said.

“You mean to say he succeeded, then, in making a Horcrux,” Harry said.

“Oh, he succeeded all right. And not just once.”

“I still don’t understand,” Hermione said. “What are they, exactly?”

“They could be anything. A ring, for example. A book.” He took a ripped leather journal out of his desk drawer.

“Riddle’s diary,” said Harry.

Dumbledore nodded. “It was a Horcrux. Moaning Myrtle provided the sacrifice, which bound her life essence to the diary. The most commonplace of objects could contain a fragment of the soul of the most powerful Dark wizard of our age.”

“That isn’t right,” Hermione said.

Dumbledore peered at her over his spectacles. “Indeed not. To create a Horcrux is to commit one of the gravest, most evil acts of magic that exists. It goes against all that we could call right.”

Hermione shook her head. “No, I meant that can’t be  _ correct _ _._ A Horcrux can’t work that way. None of the writing on souls I’ve found in our archives suggests that they’ve been definitively proven; the greatest wizards and witches in all the texts are still arguing over what a soul even  _ is _ _._ Souls certainly aren’t understood well enough to have a defined magical application, like capturing one or hurting it.”

“Blimey, Hermione, you want to rein it in a bit?” Ron said. “It’s Dumbledore, don’t you think he knows what he’s talking about?”

Dumbledore folded his hands. “Miss Granger isn’t entirely incorrect,” he said. “I thought it simpler to explain a Horcrux in this way, but I see you’ve undertaken your own studies. I will attempt to be more clear. Perhaps you could clarify which aspect of soul magic troubles you?” 

“Magic can’t change who you are,” she said. “Even Dark magic. The Imperius Curse is an Unforgivable. Someone can make you do terrible things, but it’s just your body moving. The real you, inside, wouldn’t. Voldemort can put his magic over someone, but that doesn’t change their heart. No magic is strong enough to corrupt who the person truly  _ is. ” _

“My dear, it is the very nature of magic to shape and change who you are,” Dumbledore said. “The same way any use of power will do. The dark spells Voldemort casts may not poison the hearts of his victims, but can you deny that they affect his? Voldemort does not see people as human beings any longer. He sees tools for his own use, either to serve him or die, and perhaps to die in a way that prolongs his own life.”

_ He said killing me now would be a waste. He can do what he wants with me. _ Draco’s words rang in Hermione’s ears. Her legs went boneless under her and she dropped into a chair, putting her head between her knees.

“Draco’s home for break,” she whispered into her hands. “Oh God, he’s at home.”

“Hermione, what’s the matter?” Harry said, putting a hand on her shoulder.

“Are you all right?” Dumbledore said. “Can I offer you a cup of tea?”

“How important is it that there are seven?” she said. “Would Voldemort try to make another, to replace one that’s lost?”

“That, I believe, is unlikely. As we’ve seen, he knew from the beginning that he wished to create a specific set.” Dumbledore lowered his spectacles. “Pardon my saying so, but you seem especially agitated. Might I inquire as to the object of your concern? Perhaps I can alleviate it.”

Hermione hesitated. But she couldn’t think of what to say without putting Draco at even greater risk. What if Dumbledore didn’t let him come back to Hogwarts? She shook her head.

“Why is Moaning Myrtle still around, if the diary was destroyed?” Ron asked, eyeing the ripped book with distaste.

“What you should understand about a Horcrux is that it creates a channel between the object and the creator. I’ve never heard of multiple concurrent Horcruxes existing before, but it’s entirely possible that they would all be interlinked. In that case, Myrtle may persist until the last Horcrux is destroyed.” 

“What happens to her? Her mind, or her soul?” Hermione asked. “Does she know what’s happening to her?”

“What happens to any soul, after death?” Dumbledore said. “Magic has not reached into the greatest unknown. Do you believe she is as she was, in life?”

“No,” said Hermione. “None of the ghosts are. Nearly-Headless Nick gets gloomy about not being part of the Headless Hunt every year, even though it’s been centuries. They act like patterns, not people.”

Dumbledore nodded. “Ghosts, and enchanted portrait paintings, enable aspects of a person’s mind and personality to persist, but they cannot grow or change. They may come to learn new students’ names, but they don’t think new thoughts the way the living do. A Horcrux is something quite different. Killing another person, binding their life energy and mind to an object, adds considerably more power. The Horcrux’s creator puts part of himself into an object already imbued with life. He becomes a parasite, living inside the echoes of thought and memory of the slain. It is gruesome, but it results in a state closer to genuine life.”

“How do we know where to find them?” Harry said.

“Therein lies the difficulty,” Dumbledore said. “We must locate and destroy all the Horcruxes if we hope to defeat Lord Voldemort.”

“Bloody fantastic,” said Ron.

“What do you need us to do?” asked Hermione.

“I’ve placed too great a burden on you already,” Dumbledore said. “Although, I admit, I may still have more to ask of you, especially you, Harry. I don’t want to worry you prematurely, but if the time comes that I need your assistance, I will explain further.”

Hermione curled her fingers into fists, spread them out again. “Are any of us going to make it through this? How are we supposed to hold out against someone who’s capable of all of this?”

Dumbledore frowned. “Miss Granger, you surprise me. We have always known that we have more powerful forces to draw on than Voldemort.”

“Love,” Harry said. “And friendship.”

Ron made a half-smile that looked like a wince. “I’m with Hermione, to be honest. We’re holding together as well as we can, but he keeps getting stronger. And if the bastard can’t even die--I dunno. Harry’s mum saved him, but she still died. No offense, mate.”

“‘S’all right,” Harry said.

“It’s interesting you should mention Lily,” Dumbledore said. “Slughorn told you about a gift he received from your mother, Harry, if I’m not mistaken.”

“A bowl of water, with a flower that turned into a fish,” Harry said. “But he told me that when we were alone, Headmaster. How did you know?”

“I asked Slughorn if I might inspect it, shortly after your mother died. The fish had disappeared, and of course, you survived. It would have been best if I had conducted tests before, as well, but sufficient traces remained to convince me. I believe your mother prepared a powerful spell, intending to protect you. Something, in fact, almost like a Horcrux in some of its base mechanics, if opposite in nature. As Hermione has pointed out, it is not possible to take the soul of another through magic. It is, however, possible to commit the most essential parts of you into what you create. Lily was pregnant, I imagine, and desperate to protect her unborn child in whatever way possible. I’ve told you before that her love saved you. This was how.”

Harry shook his head. “I’m sorry, sir, you’ll have to go over that again.”

Hermione’s lips were moving. Her hand darted, subconsciously mimicking the practice flicks and twirls for a complicated spell. She looked up into Dumbledore’s face. “She made herself the sacrifice. It’s the inverse of a Horcrux. She bound it with her love and her life, instead of killing someone else to provide the power.”

Dumbledore turned toward Harry. “Your mother was a remarkably gifted witch, and a sensitive woman. The flower was, naturally, a lily, and as for the fish. Well. I claim no personal experience, but I have heard that the first movements of a child are not unlike a fish in a bowl. Lily held great respect for love’s strength. Although,” he said, blue eyes over the crescent glasses turning stern, “It is also worth noting that sacrificial love is not the only meaningful expression of the emotion. We have more power, and more to hope for, than you may imagine.”

Hermione was quiet and troubled, leaving Dumbledore’s office. She took Harry’s hand.

“Can we go for a walk?”

Harry looked relieved. “Sure, yeah. You want to talk through it a little more? I’m still trying to wrap my head around what it all means. Ron, you want to come talk?”

Ron made a face. “Rather not, mate. It’s enough talk about killing and evil magic for one afternoon, for me. You and Hermione go on ahead. Catch me up later.”

Hermione let out a sigh of relief, mixed with some guilt. It would be harder to bring up her concerns about Draco to both boys together. Easier if she could coax Harry around first, and have his backup to talk with Ron. The two of them split off and made their way to the grounds.

“We’re going to have to wait until Dumbledore tells us what’s next,” Harry said. “Unless you’ve read something useful? You’ve been tearing through a lot of books, even for you.”

“Harry,” Hermione said. “I think we should tell Draco. About the Horcruxes, and everything.”

Harry cocked his head. “Do you think that’s a good idea? Dumbledore’s been holding all of this tight to the chest. He wasn’t even sure about me telling you and Ron about things, at first. It’s hardly something to start spreading around.”

“Who said anything about spreading it around?” Hermione said. “I think we need to be careful, sure. Let’s not bring it up in DA. But Draco needs to know Voldemort’s made these. I don’t care if Dumbledore thinks it’s ‘unlikely’ that he’ll try to make another Horcrux. If there’s any chance at all, we need to make a plan. Talk to the Order, maybe. There’s got to be a safe house that could take him, to get him out of harm’s way.”

“What do you mean, get him out?” Harry said, voice sharper. “Hermione, what are you trying to tell me he’s  _ in ?” _

Hermione realized, too late, that she was saying more than she meant to. “The war’s already started. We can’t act like we’re the only ones affected by Voldemort.”

“I thought you said he learned Dark magic from his father,” Harry said.

“I--he did,” Hermione said.

“But are you telling me he’s working for the Death Eaters, or what? How deep is Malfoy in?”

“He’s not what you think he is,” she said. “You’ve been biding your time all year trying to pin accusations on Draco.”

“It sounds like you’re telling me I’ve been more right than you wanted to admit.”

Hermione set her teeth. “You don't have any idea what you're talking about. You don’t know what Draco’s already put himself through to have a fighting chance at keeping away from the Death Eaters.”

“Excellent job he’s done. You’ve seen how many Dark hexes he knows in DA, right? He isn’t learning spells like that late nights in the library. Ginny’s been saying for weeks that we should be asking more questions about who Malfoy’s really casting his lot in with.”

“Is that how it’s going to be?” Hermione demanded. “Judge Potter gets to pick and choose who he likes, and anyone who hasn’t got on your good side is left out in the cold?”

Harry’s eyes were wide. “Blimey, Hermione, listen to yourself. You’re starting to sound like him.” 

“I trust him,” Hermione said. “Harry, I wish at least that you’d trust me about this.”

“Trusting you isn’t the problem.” Harry rubbed a hand over his forehead and through his hair, sending it sticking wildly in all directions. “All of this is getting so big,” he said. “It used to be simpler.”

“I don’t think it’s going to go back to being simple,” Hermione said. “We’re in the part where things are going to keep getting bigger and worse, and we’re not going to know how long that part will last until it’s over. It’s up to us to save who we can.”

“Would you save him if it put our other friends at risk? Ginny, and Luna, and Hannah, and Neville?” 

“I don’t think it would. I know him. I’m not turning my back on him.”

Harry jammed his hands in his pockets. “I do trust you, Hermione. If you tell me he knows the things he knows because of his parents, I believe you mean that. When Malfoy gets back, though, he and I are having a heart-to-heart. If he wants to stand with us, he can stand with us. But if he’s going to turncoat back to Malfoy Manor the second anything goes wrong, I can’t put our friends in danger.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Once again, I've lifted or very lightly remixed quotes from canon here. I might stop providing explicit disclaimers about this, since readers of this fic have proven to be better versed with canon then I am on various occasions! I trust you all to spot the words that aren't my own and know I'm not trying to pull the wool over your eyes.)
> 
> I know I'm not the only person who's questioned how in the world "mother's love" provided such a strong magical protection (Did Voldemort never murder a child before? Did other mothers...not love their kids sufficiently?). I hope it's not too weird to say I kind of feel Tom Riddle's point here? I've got plenty of questions about how magic and souls work. It's all hypothetical, of course, all purely academic ;-).


	36. Blood

The first day Draco came home after break, he didn’t notice much of anything different. He was still too jumpy, flinching when Granger came up behind him and put her hand on his back. Keeping his friable nerves in check took too much effort to register cues from other people.

Over the next few days, he caught Potter’s suspicious glances when the other boy thought Draco wasn’t looking. He noticed Potter and Granger with their heads together and a dark expression on Potter’s face. Granger made a sympathetic face when he asked about DA meetings and told him those were on hold for the moment. 

“Why?” he said. “There are more counters to teach. I thought you wanted everyone to practice as many as I knew.”

“I do,” she said. “I’m just sorting a few things out, first. We’ll get back to it soon.”

“Sorting things out with Potter?”

“Harry’s under a bit of stress right now.”

“And?”

“And I thought it would be best if I wasn’t trying to push you two together on top of it. Just. Draco. Leave it alone until I get a chance to smooth a couple things over, okay?”

He tried pressing her, but she was too deep in that prim, let-me-deal-with-Potter place to make more conversation worthwhile. Draco didn’t have any more choice in the matter but to wait.

Unless he talked to Potter himself, which was what he was considering when he walked into the Great Hall that afternoon. Granger had said something she shouldn’t, that much was clear. The question was how much, and how much trouble he was in because of it.

He recognized Katie Bell from across the hall, and realized a split second later that the dark-haired boy she was talking to was Potter. Katie was standing close to him, leaning in slightly as if she was murmuring whatever it was she was telling him. Something secret. And then her gaze shifted, looking over Potter’s shoulder, directly at Draco.

Draco faltered. It couldn’t be. Katie couldn’t possibly--Granger had promised.

Then Potter turned, too, eyes scanning until they stopped on him, and Draco panicked. 

He turned on the spot and made his way out of the Great Hall. It felt like there was an iron band wrapped around his lungs. He couldn’t get air. He dug his thumb into the knot of his tie, loosening it to relieve the choking pressure.

Too many people in the halls. The bathroom would be empty. He quickened his pace.

By the time he reached the bathroom, Draco was fighting a wave of nausea. His skin felt prickly and hot. Clammy droplets of sweat made his forehead itch.

He shouldn’t have done it. He should never have done it.

He tugged at his tie again, pulled it off, yanked his sweater over his head. He ran the tap cold and splashed water on his face. The shock of the cold made him gasp, and then the one gasp turned into shuddering, panicky sobs. He gripped the sides of the sink, struggling to regain control. There wasn’t enough air.

“I know what you did, Malfoy.” Potter’s voice, rough with anger and scorn. “You hexed her, didn’t you?”

Draco spun away from the mirror. Potter’s eyes took in the paleness of Draco’s face, his mussed hair, the wetness on his cheeks. There should have been hatred on his face, but there was a contemptuous sort of pity instead, which was unbearably worse.

Draco knew too well what happened to the weak. It wouldn’t be him, not again.

He lifted his arm and fired the first hex he could think of, a blinding flash of power that Potter dodged easily, although not without a cry of surprise.

_ “ Snake _ _.”_ Potter fired a wordless spell back, something powerful enough to singe Draco’s cheek as he leaped out of the way, and break the mirror behind him.

Potter stormed toward him. Draco darted behind a stone column and fired again.

“Get out!”

“How many others?” Potter shouted. “Who’ve you hurt, Malfoy?”

Draco slunk around the perimeter, shielding himself behind stone, masking the sound of his steps with the patter of water. Draco’s father’s voice was echoing in his ears, withering and malicious and desperate. He screwed his eyes shut.

_ Do it. It's a spell, you stupid boy.  _

“Was Ron your doing, too?” Potter shouted. “Answer me!”

_ What's unforgivable is putting your mother's life in danger. All of our lives. _

“Does Hermione know what you are?”

_ Don’t force my hand. _

“What will you do to her to save your skin, Death Eater?” Nothing but hatred in Potter’s voice now, and it was too close. 

Draco opened his eyes. The rage and terror and hate was pounding in his head, too, and it was Potter, who’d always despised him (except when it had seemed like somehow he might help him, might be someone Draco could almost trust, but that was already a lifetime ago). If he could do this now, then Lucius’ voice would stop. He lifted his wand.

“Cru--” he said, just as Potter yelled, “Sectumsempra!” and a jolt of magic blasted Draco off his feet.

He knew something was wrong as soon as he landed. His chest. Something was the matter with his chest. Dragging lines of pressure pulled from--he wasn’t sure. He felt weak. And--warm? No, cold. No. His back was cold but his chest was hot, and he wanted to cry or call for help, but his breath hitched when his chest moved and no sound would come.

More pressure, throbbing dark-bright. His stomach. Arms. A female voice was screeching, “Murder!” He was shaking uncontrollably. His chest hurt now, and the pain was so  _ loud _ . The warm wetness was spreading. If he didn’t open his eyes, it wouldn’t be blood. If he held still, this would go away.

The pressure was driving deeper. His stomach. Draco felt ragged parts of him rub against the fabric of his shirt with each shallow breath. Something slippery. Draco had a wild, delirious thought that he would find out if his intestines had nerve endings, if he could tell if his shirt touched them. It struck him as funny. He wanted to tell someone, but no one could hear inside his head.

A sonorous voice, intoning something not quite melodic, not quite tuneless. Gradually, Draco was aware of the pressure lessening, although somehow it made the actual pain sharpen its clarity. There was something small and hard tracing over his chest now. The tip of a wand. He opened his eyes and saw the color swirling back toward his body. And then Draco could take a real breath.

“We need to get you to the hospital wing,” Snape said. “You need dittany. Immediately. There will be some scarring, although if we act quickly, we may avoid even that.” He pulled Draco up and slung one of Draco’s arms over his shoulders.

Draco looked at his feet, which seemed to move so slowly as Snape half-carried, half-dragged him along. He put his fingertips to his chest and cried out. His shirt was still soaked with blood. He thought he’d seen blood going back into the wounds, but what about the rest of it? The warmth had slid down his sides. The puddle he had been lying in was viscous. 

His head felt fuzzy.

He wasn’t going to make it on his own feet to the hospital wing. He opened his mouth to tell Snape, but he needed all his attention to breathe again. Draco toppled, and Snape’s hand caught him under his shoulder, and Draco had just enough time to feel a flicker of gratitude before he lost consciousness.

“What the hell were you thinking?” Hermione shouted. Harry was sitting in an armchair in the Common Room, already looking cowed, but she didn’t care. News traveled fast. By the time Harry got back to Gryffindor Tower and told Hermione, Ron, and Ginny what had happened, Hermione had heard plenty.

“Leave it, Hermione,” Ron warned. “He’s already gotten told off by Snape and McGonagall, he doesn’t need you yelling, too.”

“You’re bloody well right I’m going to yell, Ronald Weasley. He could have killed him!” Hermione shouted. “And he was more concerned about getting cut from the Quidditch team! Harry, how could you? You told them first, before you even thought to come and tell me?”

“He’s all right, isn’t he?” said Ron.

“They won’t let me in to see him yet,” Hermione said. “So I don’t know. But no, I don’t imagine he’s in great shape, because for one, he wouldn’t be in the hospital wing, and two, they would let people in if it was minor. Millicent said--”

“You said no visitors,” Ginny cut in. She hovered over Harry, one arm wrapped over his shoulders. “Get your story straight.”

“She saw him  _ going in _ _,”_ Hermione said crisply. “Unconscious, soaked in blood. Snape had to carry him.”

“Who’s Millicent?” said Harry.

“Millicent Bulstrode. She’s our year. And yes, Ginny, she’s a Slytherin, but she’s also one of Draco’s friends. She wouldn’t lie to me about what she saw.”

“Even so, she only saw that one piece,” Ron said. “That’s just one side of the story.”

“I should think if one boy’s hurt badly enough he can’t walk and the other doesn’t have a scratch on him, that’s fairly conclusive!”

“Will you stop harping on like I ambushed him for no reason?” Harry said. “Malfoy’s not some innocent dove, Hermione. You should’ve seen the way he was looking at Katie. He cursed her. It’s obvious. And in the bathroom, he all but admitted it, too--”

“What did he say?”

“And he fired at me first. He started the fight.”

“I don’t believe this,” Hermione said. “You’re actually defending--”

“I’m not defending what I did!” Harry said. “I wish I hadn’t done it, and not because of Quidditch, or the detentions. I wouldn’t have used a spell like that, not even on Malfoy, if I’d known.”

Hermione snatched up the book and prodded the note in the margin. “Because ‘for enemies’ couldn’t  _ possibly  _ mean anything harmful. Don’t we all just wish our enemies sunshine and marshmallows? Or maybe you thought it would be something dastardly, like always having one fewer pancake than you wanted.”

“Give it a rest, Hermione!” said Ginny, grabbing Harry’s hand. Harry looked up at her, eyes wide with hope and surprise. “By the sound of it, Malfoy was trying to cast an Unforgivable Curse. Or did you lose sight of that, in the shuffle? Would you rather have it be Harry in the hospital, if your precious ferret was safe?”

“Of course not,” Hermione said, stung. “Ginny, I haven’t said anything like that. And even you can’t call that Sectumsempra spell good. Look where it’s landed him! Even if you’re only bothered with the way it’s inconvenienced Harry,” she added snidely, “You’d have to admit at least that this doesn’t do you any favors in the match.”

“Oh, don’t start acting as though you understand Quidditch,” Ginny said, matching Hermione’s tone. “You’ll only embarrass yourself.”

Harry and Ron had retreated into stunned silence. They swiveled their heads from one witch to the other. Now they turned back to Hermione, who found herself too furious to collect her words.

Ginny folded her arms. “You may as well run along and check on your boyfriend, then,” she said. “I’ll be the one who stays back and takes care of Harry.”

“I care about Harry,” Hermione said through gritted teeth. “Don’t you dare accuse me otherwise. But it looks like Harry’s got plenty of people in his corner, so yes, I think I will try and see the person who actually got hurt.”

“Yes, I suppose so,” Madame Pomfrey said, at the entrance to the boy’s ward. 

Hermione made to push past her, but Pomfrey grabbed her arm. 

“Don’t grill him. I’ve turned several professors away already. The boy’s recovering from a serious hex. Don’t think I won’t take you right back through these doors if I catch you riling my patients.”

“That’s not what I’m here for,” Hermione said.

Draco’s chest was wrapped in bandages. His eyes were open, but he didn’t look over at Hermione when she approached the bed.

“Hey,” she said. “I’ve been trying and trying. Madame Pomfrey wouldn’t let me in to see you until now.”

“You needn’t have bothered.”

“Obviously I should.” Hermione sat in the chair. She took his hand, and jumped when the action rotated his arm to show the clear skin on the underside. “What happened to it?”

Draco looked down. “Snape. A concealment charm. The Healers should be focused on the more pressing concern, shouldn’t they?”

“Everyone’s talking about you,” Hermione said. “How bad is it?”

“I’ll pull through, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“I’m asking how you are.”

“What do you think?”

Hermione pressed her lips together. “Are you mad at me?”

“No.”

Hermione waited. Draco’s hand was still loose in hers. His fingers didn’t curl around her hand.

“Then are you going to talk to me?”

He flicked his gaze her direction and back. “What would you like to talk about?”

“I talked to Harry.”

“There it is.”

“What does that mean?”

“What did Potter have to say, then?” Draco said. “Or maybe start with what it was you told him so he’d hunt me down in a bathroom.”

“Draco, whatever Harry did isn’t my fault. I didn’t send him after you. He’s been suspicious about you for most of the year. He and Ron and I went to see Dumbledore--”

“About what?”

“We were discussing Slughorn,” Hermione said. “I talked to Harry after, about finding a safe house for you, and he jumped to all kinds of conclusions. I thought things were getting better in DA, but apparently not enough.”

“So now you’re here to try and patch things up.”

“I’m here for you.”

“Maybe you should stop.” Draco’s face was collected, but Hermione knew to look for the tension in his posture. “I’m not going back to DA, or any of it. I’m not going to fit into your circle, and even you’re clearly still prepared to listen to everything Potter has to say before I get a word.”

“I already told you I came here first. Madame Pomfrey wasn’t letting anyone in. So I went and found Harry so I could hear what the hell happened. I didn’t go to stroke his forehead and tell him how sorry I am he can’t play bloody Quidditch, if that’s what you’re insinuating. I don’t understand why you’re upset at me for hearing him out.”

“Because you can’t have a foot on either side!”

Hermione drew back, spine suddenly ramrod straight and pressing hard into the back of the wooden chair. She knew she must look stunned, but she couldn’t read anything behind the grey eyes and careful set of his mouth. That was more worrying to her than what he'd said.

“You told me we were on the same side.” She kept her voice low, looking down the row of beds to make sure none of the nurses were nearby. “Draco. What’s changed? Tell me.”

“Nothing’s changed. It’s all the way it’s always been,” Draco muttered. “You and I can’t be a side all by ourselves.”

“You need more people in your corner. I get that. We can figure something out. Maybe it’s time to talk to Dumbledore directly.”

“No. Absolutely not.” Draco pulled himself into a straighter sitting position, too. “Granger, don’t you dare. Stop trying to solve things for me, you’re only making it worse. Stay out.”

“All right, I can admit DA didn’t turn out to be as strong of a solution as I thought it would be. That doesn’t mean you give up, it means you look for the next step. We don’t have a more powerful person to turn to than Dumbledore.”

“You can’t rely on Dumbledore for everything,” Draco said. “You can’t put your faith in one person. If he lets you down, you’ll all get yourselves killed.”

“Draco, you can’t go through your whole life writing your options off before you even know what someone might be willing to do for you. That’s the way to end up alone, and clearly you can’t handle everything by yourself.”

“You don’t know what I’m capable of. You don’t know what I’ve done. No matter how much you’re reading and planning, and how brilliant you are, you can’t plan for everything that could happen, either. Everything that’s coming is bigger than you, Granger, and you’re going to have to face up to that sooner or later. The more you tangle yourself up in trying to control everything, the more likely you’re going to end up hurt, or worse. You need to learn the difference between when to fight and when to do what you need to do to protect yourself.”

“Maybe you ought to learn there isn’t some special point where everyone splits off and only takes care of themself. We all have to take care of each other, if any of us hope to survive. I’m sorry you couldn’t count on Harry this time, although again, it’s not my job to be apologizing. You can’t just shut people out and then complain that there’s no one here for you.” 

“Promise me. If something happens, get your people together and get them out. Don’t go running toward commotion for once in your life.”

“Draco, nothing’s going to happen here.”

“You have to promise.”

“Ssh.” Hermione looked down the corridor again. “You’re going to get me kicked out if Pomfrey hears you.”

Too late. Madame Pomfrey poked her head in the doorway. “Visiting hours are up,” she announced.

“We’re not done talking,” Hermione said.

“Oh yes, you are.” She strode up, sensible shoes making a hushed, scuffing sound on the polished floor. “Get your things and say goodnight. Visiting hours are ten to twelve tomorrow, and then again at four. And you, my lad, are having another potion and then lights out in fifteen minutes. There’ll be plenty of time to chat later on.”

But of course, as it soon became apparent, there wasn’t. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> RIP my search history writing this chapter.
> 
> "blood loss chart"  
> "how much blood is in the human body"  
> "how much blood can you lose"  
> "blood loss symptom by volume"  
> "symptoms of shock"  
> "what does it feel like to get stabbed"  
> "what stab wound feels like"  
> "real stabbing story"
> 
> It's basically a writing rite of passage to worry that the spies tracking your computer think you might be a serial killer.
> 
> Also: Reading the book version of this scene is fun because 1. JKR describes some of the Sectumsempra wounds appearing on Draco's *face*, like holy shit lady, you are serious about hurting this boy! and 2. the Golden Trio scene is amazing because it's the closest thing to reading as though Hermione really has been very quietly dating Draco all this time. Like, he's a racist who's tormented her for years etc.etc.etc., but when Sectumsempra goes down, Ron and Ginny are there like, "Harry, this was maybe not the best choice you've made," and Hermione is the one just RAGING OUT. 
> 
> Sure, the official explanation is probably that Hermione is a Rule Follower (despite her tendency not to give a single f about rules when push comes to shove) and an overall decent person, but it's more fun to imagine that Hermione ran the math and decided her romantic life was 0% the boys' business.


	37. The Astronomy Tower

The Cabinet worked. Draco could barely trust what was happening in front of him, but it worked. The gears turned with silken ease. Even the feel of the magic reverberating from his wand had found a new frequency. It worked. It terrified him.

He came back to it several times, feeling like he was walking through a dream. He sent an apple, it came back. A bird came back. A mouse, back. Alive, unharmed. There had to be some mistake.

Draco tested again and again, getting more reckless, tossing in combinations of whatever animals he could catch. Birds, mice, snakes, toads. Someone’s cat. Alive, alive, alive. It didn’t even seem to matter if he kept track of how many creatures he tossed into the Cabinet at once. Some irreproducible combination of spells must have solidified the protections on the transfer magic. He could test over and over as many times as he wanted, and nothing died.

He didn’t care. Nothing was enough to convince him. Who gave a bloody shit if he could send a mouse, if the real test was whether the Cabinet could hold his parents? He needed something bigger. Something human.

He tore out of the Room of Requirement, brain seething, body trembling with the need to prove. Draco didn’t even think about what he was doing until he’d slammed the door shut on the Merpup and spoken the incantation. Then the knowledge of what he’d face if he was wrong hit. He sagged against the Cabinet, closing his eyes and pressing his forehead into the door.

“No, no, no,” he whispered into the wood. “Please.”

He couldn’t cast the return spell for several minutes. His hands were shaking too hard to control his wand. Every time he opened his mouth for the spell, the thought of a motionless infant came into his head, and he had to swallow hard against the urge to vomit.

Finally, he cast the spell. The gears turned, tiny metal teeth interlocking.

Silence.

Then, a squalling cry of confusion and fury on the other side of the door.

Draco burst into tears. He flung open the door and scooped the howling Merpup into his arms, huddling with it in the Cabinet, clutching it to his chest until it squirmed and bit at his hands. 

“I’m sorry.” He put his face in its downy pelt, letting the warmth and movement calm his heart rate back down. “I'm so sorry.”

The parents were in a state of frantic rage when he carried the pup back to the moat. Draco caught a glancing slice on his hand from one of their spears when he dropped the pup in the water. He didn't care.

The letter, in the end, was easier to write than he'd imagined for months it would be.

“Mum, I got hurt. My friends--” He crossed the last words out. Best to keep things simple. If he was going to send this letter at all, and take on everything that meant, it would be despicable to lie now. Choosing his words here was the last thing he had true control of. “I’m ready to come home. I miss you.”

Draco still thought, up until the Vanishing Cabinet door creaked open without his touch on the latch, that his parents would be the ones inside. He had braced himself to see Lucius Malfoy at his coldest and most terrifying, the Death Eater instead of his father. 

What he saw was Bellatrix. His aunt tipped her head to one side, wild hair hanging in her face, and revealed broken front teeth when she grinned. She held out a hand.

“Well?” she said. “Manners, Draco. Aren’t you going to help a lady down?”

Draco took a tentative step forward. Bellatrix didn’t like waiting, or anything she perceived as a slight. Her petulance was dangerous, even for him. At the same time, it was also dangerous to be within reach of her. He offered her his hand.

She yanked him close. Rotten meat stench. Yellow teeth--not Bellatrix’s--snapping inches from his face.

Draco yelled and leapt back, fingers pulling free from his aunt’s grip.

Bellatrix laughed, mouth open wide, and hopped down. Behind her, the werewolf, Fenrir Greyback, leered in the doorway. His guttural laugh made Draco take another step back.

Fenrir stepped down, snuffling at the air. His yellow eyes trained on Draco’s.

“Lots of kids coming through here,” he said. “Smells good.”

Two others stepped through. Draco didn’t recognize them behind their masks. They didn’t speak.

Bellatrix gripped him where his shoulder met his neck. She smiled again, her face too close. “Time to go. Be a dear and show your Auntie the way.”

Later, Draco would relive some of the events that happened that evening over and over, every detail impressed in devastating clarity into his mind. Other parts slipped away, and he would hate himself for losing them.

He remembered the werewolf’s breath behind him as Bellatrix marched him out of the Room of Requirement.

He remembered the voices in the halls, which were the sign that the second thing was going wrong, that night.

Longbottom saw them first. His body tensed, and then his wand was in his hand. 

Bellatrix swatted his Stupefy spell away with a bored flick of her wand and fired a Cruciatus curse back that Longbottom barely managed to dodge. Draco suspected Bellatrix had missed on purpose, to prolong the game.

Other people came running when Longbottom shouted. Lovegood. One of the Gryffindor Chasers--Spinnet. Ginny Weasley, and a young man Draco didn’t know, but whose hair almost certainly confirmed him as one of the oldest Weasley brothers.

Draco couldn’t tell them to run. 

Longbottom shoved Spinnet. “Get the others, I’ll cover you!” He fired a Shield spell after her as she ran, and Luna’s dreamy voice reeled off a stream of confounding charms, spells that made Draco’s balance lurch with vertigo and clouded his vision. More people were running in. Bellatrix and the other Death Eaters were firing curses indiscriminately, but the DA members seemed to miss each one, however narrowly.

Until Ginny’s Stinging Hex caught Bellatrix in her wand arm.

“Filthy little bitch,” Bellatrix snarled. She shot a spell at Ginny that flung the girl into the wall behind her. Ginny was on the floor, but her wand was still in her hand and she flinched away from Bellatrix’s next hex. Ginny climbed to one knee and steadied her arm to fire again.

Draco could see the flatness in his aunt’s eyes. She’d never see real people in front of her, not since Azkaban, and probably even before then, too. There were toys and there were pests. The next spell she cast would kill.

The red-haired man shoved in between them and turned to face Bellatrix, but Bellatrix smiled, tapping the tip of her wand against her teeth. Greyback leaped from the side.

There was a wet sound when the werewolf’s teeth sank into flesh. A girl screamed. Bellatrix cackled. An image flashed through Draco's mind--the golden tines of his fork piercing a lump of meat on his plate, knife sawing, every nerve in his body whining  _ don’t look up _ .

He had Peruvian Instant Darkness powder in his pocket. He threw it.

Voices, scuffle, growls. Wet, bubbling breath. More screams. Bellatrix found his elbow and steered him forward, and Draco's foot skidded in something. The darkness and the effects of the other spells prevented him from making out much, but he saw enough.

There was blood on the floor.

There was a body on the floor, unmoving. 

“Go,” Bellatrix hissed.

He stepped over the body.

Draco counted steps on the climb up to the top of the Astronomy Tower to steady himself. When he passed the Lower Observatory, he reached for the door handle automatically. He didn't notice he'd done it until Bellatrix said, “Not here, idiot.”

Another crash of spells, below. Bellatrix shoved him forward and descended back into darkness.

Stepped over it. The toe of his shoe brushed against it.

He reached (stepped) the top of the tower and crossed (right over it) the threshold, and there was (a body) Dumbledore, alone, wand all but dangling from his hand.

“Expelliarmus,” Draco said, and the wand flew into his hand, and Dumbledore was (dead he was dead) looking right at him.

“Good evening, Draco.”

Draco glanced around. He saw two things: a pair of broomsticks leaning against the stone wall behind Dumbledore, and glittering light overhead from the skull in the sky, a thick snake winding from its mouth.

“Who else is here?” Draco thought he’d seen all the Death Eaters who had come through the Cabinet. Who had slipped away to cast the Morsmordre? If Dumbledore rode into Hogwarts tonight, who was with him?

“A question I might ask you. Or are you acting alone?”

Draco shook his head, mouth dry. “There are Death Eaters in your school tonight.”

“You found a way to let them in?”

“Right under your nose,” Draco said. “You never realized.” 

“Ingenious,” Dumbledore said in that calm, infuriating voice. As though Draco was a child prattling on about a finger painting. “But where are they now? You seem unsupported.”

“I came on ahead. I--I’ve got a job to do.”

Dumbledore settled himself on the stone bench. “Forgive an old man. I’d be more comfortable seated, if you don’t mind.” He folded his hands in front of him, leaned forward to peer at Draco over the half-moon spectacles, and smiled. “Draco, you are not a killer.”

“How do you know?”

“You’ve been trying, with increased desperation, to kill me all year. You almost killed Katie Bell and Ronald Weasley.” He shook his head. “Feeble attempts, if I may speak frankly with you. So feeble, I wonder whether your heart has really been in it.”

“I’m not feeble,” Draco said. “I’ve been working on it all year. You’re the one who should be afraid.”

“Why? I don’t think you will kill me, Draco. Killing is not nearly as easy as the innocent believe.” Dumbledore tapped a finger against his cheek. “How did you smuggle them in here? It seems to have taken you quite a long time to work out a way to do it.”

Draco swallowed. He hadn’t really expected Dumbledore to be afraid. He’d thought it was a possibility, but mostly he’d assumed the headmaster would fight or try to escape. Like anyone would. Being goaded like this--he wasn’t sure if Dumbledore was stalling for time so backup could arrive (the second broomstick’s owner?), or trying to make it easier for Draco to stomach casting the Avada. 

But Dumbledore  _ knew, _he’d known all this time. He knew about Bell, and Weasley, he knew things Draco hadn’t even told Granger, and Draco had to know how much more the old man knew. 

“I had to mend the broken Vanishing Cabinet that no one’s used for years. The spellwork was almost completely worn off. The interior was shredded.”

“Ah,” Dumbledore said. “There is a twin, I take it?”

“In Borgin and Burkes. They make a passage. Even with the anti-App spells and wardings. I was the one who realized there could be a way into Hogwarts if I fixed the broken one.”

Dumbledore sat back. “Well, very good. A clever plan indeed, a very clever plan. And, as you mentioned, right under my nose.”

“Yeah, it was!” Draco was wasting time, and it was embarrassing to feel relief at hearing an adult’s praise, but he couldn’t help the words from tumbling out.

“And yet, there was still all that trouble of necklaces and poison wine. These roundabout, crude attempts that seemed more calculated to avoid me at every turn than hit their mark. All that messiness, when it would seem you were dedicated to your work on the Cabinet. Were you trying to fail?”

Draco glanced behind him. Death, if Bellatrix or Greyback came up behind him and believed Dumbledore’s assessment. “Shut up, old man. Couldn’t have been that sloppy. You still didn't realize who was behind it.”

“Naturally, I did. I was sure it was you.”

“Why didn’t you stop me, then?” Draco’s voice came out weaker than he thought. “Why didn’t you help?”

“I tried,” Dumbledore said, voice mild and weary. 

“Someone’s dead,” Draco blurted out. “One of your people. It was dark, I couldn’t see who it was. I stepped over the body.”

There was a bang from below. Shouting, drawing closer.

“We have little time,” Dumbledore said. “Let us discuss your options, Draco.”

Draco’s mouth dropped open as though Dumbledore had hit him. “My options? I’m standing here with a wand--I’m about to kill you.”

“My dear boy, let us have no more pretense about that. You’ve had time to kill me. You won’t.”

The headmaster thought Draco thought there was still a way out. He was taunting him, after all. He was going to sit there and promise Draco everything he’d wanted all year, not as a plea for his own life, but to make sure Draco knew that Dumbledore could have helped, all along, and chose not to tell him so. And if some terrible, helpless, weak part of Draco got sucked in and believed him now, it would destroy everything.

“I don’t have any options!” Draco said. “I’ve got to do it. He’ll kill me. He’ll kill my whole family.”

Dumbledore was nattering something about safe houses, faked death, amnesty for Draco, for his mother. Not for Lucius. Did Dumbledore think Draco felt nothing for his father? Did Dumbledore honestly believe Draco was such a cowering worm that he’d turn his back on his family because this man who left him to suffer all year suddenly changed his mind?

“I don’t have any choice,” Draco said. He lifted his arm, but his hand around the wand was numb and useless.

And then the door opened.

Black robes. A glint of masks. So the Death Eaters had won the skirmish, downstairs. 

A smell of sweat and iron and rank animal hair. The werewolf leered.

“Fenrir, is that you?” Dumbledore said.

“Pleased to see me?” Greyback growled.

“I cannot say that I am.” Dumbledore looked at Draco, and for the first time, the mild-humored, nearly mocking expression was replaced by grim seriousness. “I am a little shocked that Draco would invite you, of all people, into the school where his friends live.”

“I didn’t,” Draco whispered. “I didn’t know he was going to come.”

“Much as I’d enjoy a chat,” Bellatrix said, “I’m afraid we’re on a bit of a tight schedule.” She pouted her lips and leaned in so close she could have put her tongue in Draco’s ear. 

“Do it, Draco, _now."_

“He doesn’t have the stomach.” That was Greyback.

Draco’s throat convulsed. He couldn’t stop swallowing against the lurching in his innards. His whole body was shaking. He faltered, wand hand slipping down--

“Avada Kedavra.”

For a dizzying instant, Draco thought he’d said the words himself after all, that even his own magic was betraying him. He was looking right at Dumbledore’s face. He saw Dumbledore’s eyes go out, and the headmaster was falling, falling.

Bellatrix whooped in the Great Hall, kicking crystal goblets off the table, laughing at the clang of plates on the floor. Draco turned around when the tinkling of glass turned into an ocean roar.

She pulled her hands toward her, curling her fingers slowly, and the Great Hall disintegrated in front of Draco’s eyes. The windows exploded. Floating candles snuffed out. The enchanted sky tore. Days later, Draco’s hair and clothes would still be full of dust-fine particles of glass, too small to see, but scratching and burning.

Running, outside. The hiss and impact around them of spells firing. A smell of smoke. And then a rough voice, agonized with grief and rage, calling for Snape, and again Draco had a bewildering moment where he couldn’t be sure it wasn’t him, screaming.

Potter. Chasing them.

Snape shouted, “Run, Draco!” and turned, raising his wand. Draco bolted without pausing to see what it was Snape planned to do. 

He was trembling uncontrollably from exertion and fear when he made it past the gates. He huddled beside the road, behind a hedge. He gripped his wand. Every few seconds, he jumped and looked behind him. He kept expecting Bellatrix, or the werewolf. Someone must have seen him, followed him. The Mark on his arm wrenched over and over again.

Red and green lights winked in the grounds. Maybe more people were dying. The Morsmordre gaped over the castle. 

Then, faintly at first but glowing brighter, another light. It shone with the same pearly sheen as moonlight, although the sky overhead was clouded. The light seemed to concentrate on the skull in the sky, softening it until the features blurred.

Draco was puzzling over what could be the source and nearly didn’t notice Snape’s approach. He jumped to his feet, ready to run whatever direction Snape told him as though his life hung in the balance.

“Draco. Stop.”

Draco turned. The silhouette of Hogwarts was like a dark dragon behind the professor. Snape’s face looked haunted.

“I never had a child,” Snape said. “There was a time I might have seen myself with a family. Might have wanted one. It...did not come to pass. And now here you are.”

Draco blinked. It was impossible to keep all traces of astonishment out of his voice. “Are you--are you trying to say I’m like the son you never had?”

“No, you insipid fool. You would have been a disappointment to me as a son, even as you are a disappointment to your own parents.”

Draco’s eyes hardened.

“In that case, Professor, I suggest we Apparate before we’re found, unless there was anything else you wanted to tell me.”

“You have told yourself you made mistakes. That is how you think of the things you have done. I know. I’ve seen it in your mind. I lived it once. They were choices, Draco, all of them, regardless of how they felt at the time. You will learn that even if you are prepared to make the deepest sacrifices for the sake of the things you hold most dear, they will still be taken from you. You are now in the part of your life where all that is left for you are reminders, over and over again, of the consequences, the things you lost due to your choices.”

“You can’t know that.” Draco meant for it to come out forcefully, but his voice shook. His mind was blank and grey. “Professor, I’m seventeen. You can’t talk to me like that and just--leave me.”

“I have had years to decide that I would have wanted it this way,” Snape said. “It would have been kinder, had I known from the beginning to give up hope.”

Draco was sick after they Apparated. When he’d heaved himself empty, he sat at the base of a tree to recover and blinked at his surroundings. They were in the center of a thicket. The sky overhead was so dark and clear, they couldn’t be anywhere near houses.

“I thought you had a place to take me.”

“This is it.” Snape kicked a duffel bag Draco had mistaken for a stump. “There is currently no safe house that will have you. This is the Forest of Dean. There are supplies in the pack. I will return when possible, but I can make no promises.”

Draco scrambled to his feet. “What are you talking about? You said you promised to protect me. You took the Unbreakable Vow.”

“And I have delivered you here. To safety, as far as is possible. My Vow held during your attempt to fulfill the Dark Lord’s task. I have completed what I swore to Narcissa to do.”

“No. Wait--” Draco said, but there was a rush of air, and Snape was gone.

“Come back!” Draco shouted at the dark masses of trees and the steady drone of insects. “Coward! Bloody, wretched coward!”

It was two days after Dumbledore’s funeral, and Hermione still hadn’t cried. She thought she would. She came close, when the fire blazing over the body cooled into the smooth white tomb, and when the Merfolk sang their tribute, but there was a block that choked any tears from coming.

Harry had told her that first night, of course. He told everyone. Snape did it, Snape killed Dumbledore. The words thudded in her chest, but it was a hollow sort of feeling.

The results of the searching of Draco’s room was the final, awful piece for her. Most of his things were gone. Clothes, toiletries, several books. Hermione had clung, briefly, to the idea that somehow Draco had been tricked, hadn’t known what the task of mending the Vanishing Cabinet was for (because of course that’s what that bloody task had been, she’d been so  _ stupid  _ not to figure it out). 

But he’d planned. He’d packed. He’d prepared to leave Hogwarts in a hurry. Harry had seen Draco running with Snape toward the front gates. He must have left a satchel with his things hidden in the bushes, hours beforehand. Every step of the whole thing was premeditated.

The rage roared over the grief, so all-consuming that the eulogies sounded like riddles. When McGonagall reached out to lay Dumbledore’s wand on his chest reverently before the tomb could be sealed, Hermione looked away. She was afraid that if she let herself cry at all, she’d start screaming and wouldn’t be able to stop. 

She and Ron were staying back at Hogwarts, although most people were gone. Professor-- _ Headmistress _ McGonagall wanted to respect parents’ worries and student safety, so the Hogwarts Express was ready as soon as the funeral ceremony was over. Harry had to stay behind because McGonagall refused to send him back to the Dursleys, but there needed to be time to make other arrangements. Hermione’s case, as far as official protocol was concerned, was also delicate. The faculty were still arguing over the best way to brief Muggleborn students’ families on recent events and find alternative arrangements for families who chose to send their children to a magically warded house.

Not that she’d be going, of course. She and Ron had decided that together, the night after Dumbledore was killed. Harry would want to continue on the course Dumbledore had set for him, and he was single-minded enough and noble enough to attempt to do it alone. Hermione wanted to tell him otherwise right away, but Ron stopped her.

“He’ll still be talking himself into going,” he’d said. “Just because he knows he’s got to do it doesn’t mean he isn’t afraid to go.”

“All the more reason to tell him we’ll be with him, then.”

Ron shook his head. “He needs Hogwarts right now. He needs to, y’know, soak it all in. Get ready to keep as much of it with him as he can, for when things get bad later on. If we start talking to him about plans, he’ll decide he might as well go now. Better not to rush him. Harry won’t disappear on us without an explanation. You’ll see. He’ll find a quiet moment to tell us, and then we’ll be ready, too.”

So she’d been quiet. Not that difficult, really. There wasn’t much she wanted to say to most of the people in the castle. Hermione busied herself recasting the Extendability charm on her bag until it met her satisfaction and nicking or brewing as many medical potions as she could. Food, shelter, light, medicine. Basic needs. That, she could think about.

Finally, Harry had asked Hermione and Ron to come with him to the top of the Astronomy Tower, to talk.

“Are you sure you want to go there?” Hermione said, voice weak.

Harry nodded. “I don’t want my last memory of any part of this place to be about killing. I want to remember the two of you there.”

“Of course, mate,” Ron said, before Hermione could say anything. “Wherever you need us.”

Easier to go along with it. Harry didn’t know. This was certainly no time to tell him. Hermione’s fingertips trailed against the Lower Observatory door when she passed it, and she hated herself for it. Reaching the top was hard, too. If her eye should land there, or there, or there--but she didn’t want to remember. She clenched her toes, stood next to Harry, and looked out at the winding river.

He showed them the Horcrux. “It’s fake,” he said. “Whoever has it--this R.A.B., who knows if they even managed to destroy it. Dumbledore died for nothing. I’ve got to try to finish what he started. I’ll try to let you know I’m okay, when I can, but I can’t come back to Hogwarts.”

“We’ll be there, Harry,” said Ron. “We’re with you whatever happens.”

“What?” Harry said. “No--”

“We’ve been packed for days,” Hermione said, trying to put a smile in her voice. “We’re not turning back on you. Not today, and not ever.”

Harry looked like he might try to say something, but then the tension went out of his body and he put an arm around either one of them, laying his head on Hermione’s shoulder.

They all took a moment to themselves, circling the Tower slowly, peering across at other turrets and bridges, preserving the image of the school in this golden sunlight. Saying goodbye.

When she completed her circle, Harry came up next to her.

“Thanks for coming up here with me, Hermione,” he said. “I know it can’t be easy, knowing that--” He coughed, embarrassed. “I know you tried everything you could for him, and things still ended up--this way. If it helps at all, I honestly do believe he wouldn’t have done it, even if Snape hadn’t been there. Malfoy was lowering his wand.”

Hermione shook her head to cut him off. She couldn’t bear to hear any more. 

“Don't say that name to me again.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It was always going to have to be this way.
> 
> The question is where to go from here.


	38. The Forest of Dean

Hermione, Harry, and Ron had a few, frenzied weeks at the Burrow before they launched out on their own. Everything and nothing seemed to be happening at once. Lupin dropped in to talk about next steps. Scrimgeour wanted to offer accommodation in a Ministry safe house in exchange for “brief, morale-boosting messages” from Harry, to be dispensed to the public. His face soured when the three of them refused, but he grudgingly left them with Dumbledore’s baffling tokens anyway: the book, the snitch, the strange Deluminator. Hermione thought the ridiculous Babbity Rabbity book might be a cleverly Charmed edition of another book, perhaps something on Horcruxes. No amount of spellcasting she’d tried thus far had any effect on the childish rhymes and pictures. Hermione had no idea where they were meant to start looking for ways to weaken Voldemort.

Bill and Fleur had pushed up their wedding as much as possible. Fleur tossed her impeccable hair when Molly Weasley pointed out that there might not be much time for her family and friends to arrive.

“Zey vill not come anyway,” she said airily, although Hermione saw a shadow pass over her face, and Bill reached for her hand. “Eet ees too dangerous here. Ve vill celebrate again in France ven all zis passes over your ‘eads.”

Molly had smiled, withheld from correcting the idiom, and roped Ginny and Hermione into hanging decorations.

The actual wedding started with a whirl of activity in the morning. Hermione busied herself with putting the final touches on flower arrangements, shooing Molly away to attend to her own hair and dress and spend time with Bill on his wedding day, and distracting herself as much as possible from the thought that her parents wouldn’t get a chance to do this for her. It was almost a relief when Fleur came out to check the ceremony spot and almost fainted in horror.

“You expect me to get married like zees?” she gasped. “‘Ermione, please, you are so kind, but do not touch ze flowers and eet will be much kinder, I theenk. Keep Bill away so he does not see me and let me fix it.”

Later, Ron stood up with Fred and George next to Bill. Harry sat on a wooden bench and put an arm around Hermione’s waist.

“I’m only crying because it’s beautiful,” Hermione sniffed.

“Of course you are,” Harry murmured back. “Same for me, really.”

Lupin staggered in after dinner was served, barely in time to see the cake cutting.

“I’ve determined who R.A.B. is, or was,” he said when Harry, Ron, and Hermione snuck out of the party to whisper with him in the mudroom. “Regulus Black. He’s been dead for years now.”

“So no way to ask him what he did with the Horcrux,” Harry said.

Lupin shook his head and rubbed a knuckle into the grey shadows under his eyes. “If it still exists, it would probably be deep in the Black family vaults. Or if he did manage to destroy it, the item he used would likely be there, too. Only a few things can destroy a Horcrux, and they’re all valuable.”

“You married Tonks,” Ron said. “Couldn’t she get into the vaults? She’s in the Black line.”

“Through Andromeda,” Lupin said. “Who was disowned when she married Ted, including being written out of the Gringotts succession plan.”

“What if we break in?” Harry asked. “Hermione, don’t you usually keep a batch of Polyjuice on hand?”

“Absolutely not. Even if I had hair from the family for a transformation, it’s a completely mad plan. You’re not talking about our old scrapes in Hogwarts. It’s past being dangerous, it’s just asking to get ourselves caught and killed,” Hermione said.

“I have to agree,” Lupin said. “The Ministry is crumbling by the minute. The Death Eaters will take it over openly any day now.”

“We have to do something,” Harry said.

“Harry, the Death Eaters have been coordinating their attacks for years,” Hermione said. “Planning is still doing something.”

“Dumbledore’s dead.”

“I know that,” Hermione said. “And that alone was the result of almost a year’s work. You think that’s the only attack they’ve been working on? You-Know-Who didn’t even care about--he didn’t put his best people on that attack, except Bellatrix, at the end. Who knows what he’s having the proper Death Eaters do?”

“We’ve worked out some of it, none good,” Lupin said. “Hermione’s right, Harry. The Death Eaters may well expect you to do something rash, and it would be entirely too easy for them to set up a trap. Especially if Draco Malfoy’s gone back to the Manor.”

Hermione swallowed a knot. “Do you think he has?”

“I rather hope he hasn’t,” Lupin said, looking even more haggard than usual. “A few of the students in DA mentioned he was in the group last term, which is a surprise, and a foolish thing for him to have done. You-Know-Who will sniff that out in his mind immediately and get whatever information he can about Harry that way, by whatever means he has to. For his own sake if nothing else, I’d hope Malfoy’s found somewhere else to stay.”

There was a tinkle of glass coming from the direction of the party. Bill and Fleur must be kissing.

Lupin shifted. “I’d better get a move on. Lots to do. Harry, for now, try to be patient. As soon as the Order has any reasonable plan worked out, you’ll be the first to hear.”

As Lupin predicted, the coup happened two days later. Mr. Weasley, thankfully, was still home helping the newlyweds plan an extended honeymoon in France, and so escaped the first wave of arrests. It was time to leave the Burrow.

The safest place Hermione could think of to take them, when the Ministry fell, was the Forest of Dean. Neither Harry nor Ron had ever been. No one in the Wizarding world knew any of them had the slightest connection to the place, and the only Muggles who could have offered a clue were Hermione’s parents.

She didn’t know when, exactly, David and Jean Granger, now Wendell and Monica Wilkins, would fly to Australia. Soon, hopefully. She’d made the mental suggestion fairly insistent. No way to check now.

Hermione Apparated the three of them to a large field, about a 10-minute walk from a narrow, shallow bend in the Wye. When the wave of nausea cleared and she could get her bearings, she felt a rare smile spread over her face. This place didn’t seem to change. That was the tree with a broken branch, just the right height to hang a bag of food out of reach of foraging animals. There’d be a little thicket on the way down to the creek, with brambly raspberry and blackberry bushes. The edges of the field were dotted here and there with fairy rings. Her mother liked to cook the mushrooms up, while her father wouldn’t touch them, claiming Jean and Hermione were flirting with doom for disturbing the ring. 

Hermione’s throat caught.

“This looks good,” said Ron. He started rummaging through Hermione's pack. “Where's that blasted tent? We should put that up right off.”

Hermione blew out a short breath and tightened her boot laces. “Warding first.”

“Right,” Ron said. “You'd better take Harry with you, then, you’re quicker at Apparating if you run into trouble.”

By day five of camping, Hermione wished she’d taken them anywhere else. Harry was in a foul mood much of the time. He had two weeks left until his birthday, and he couldn’t cast so much as a Lumos until then without alerting the Ministry of the whereabouts of an underage wizard. Hermione was trying to make the best of it, widening her smile, telling stories about camping, trying to hint to Ron to put his blasted wand away and agree with her that it could be  _ such fun _ to light the night’s fire with matches and a little nest of dry leaves. 

She’d packed in a practical way. For food, that meant she had a small pantry’s worth of dry goods: rice, dried beans for protein, pasta. There were some cans of tomatoes and vegetables, but not many. The Extendability charm reduced the weight of each item to a fraction, but cans were still heavy in comparison to other goods. There were other things, shelf-stable veggie “hot dogs” and patties among them, but not much in the way of treats. She hadn’t thought as much at the time about the way hours could stretch out, or the psychological pick-me-up of a pack of cookies or a bag of popcorn.

Or about teenage boys’ appetite. Hermione kept catching Harry and Ron rifling through the pack for the few bags of dried fruit or trail mix she’d brought. She was trying to ration it out, but they were going to run out soon at this rate, and she didn’t know how long they’d have to wait out here.

Hermione went down to the stream and waited for the small, unhelpful voice to needle its way through her mind. It cropped up at the worst times, and trying to push it away didn’t work.

It said things like,  _ You know, Draco might actually understand the things you can't tell the others. _ Or,  _ He would’ve been the one to say ‘Granger, what are you plotting?’ at dinner so you knew he’d noticed you were too quiet _ . Or even,  _ Wouldn’t it be nice to lean against him, just for a minute? _

“Hermione, are you decent?” Ron’s voice came through the thicket. “I’ll come back later if you’re about to have a wash.”

“I’m dressed,” Hermione called back.

The bushes rustled and Ron pushed his way through. He swiped at a fresh scratch on his arm from a berry bush.

“Finally saw a chance to talk to you and thought I'd better grab it.”

“What's going on? Is it Harry?”

“No, it's you. Why are you avoiding me?”

“I'm not avoiding you.”

“You haven't done a wards check with me once. You jump up to go with Harry, or send me with him.”

“It's not safe for Harry to be on his own and wandless.”

“We've only had one night shift together, too,” Ron said. “You spent half of it mucking around arranging the woodpile, and the other half reading. I didn’t notice it at the time, but thinking back, we didn’t talk all that much at the Burrow, even. We’ve always found time there, before.” 

“There was a lot going on. It’s been a bad few weeks.”

Ron let out a short bark of a laugh. “You’re not joking. But we’re supposed to be best friends, Hermione. The three of us ought to stick together when we have bad weeks.” He leaned his elbows heavily on his knees, shoulders hunched. “I’ve seen you talking with Harry, so you’re not hiding from everyone. I’ve been thinking it over, and the main thing I can think of to explain it is you think now that Malfoy’s out of the way, I’d think I’ve got an opening. Is that it?”

Hermione felt a hot flush over her ears and cheeks. “I didn’t want to make things more complicated than they already are. I want to feel like I can count on you and Harry to be steady.”

“Didn’t you think I’d want that, too?” Ron said. He pushed his hair back, met her eyes for a moment and then pointed his attention toward a flat rock in the creek. “I, er. May not have been completely open about a couple things, with you.”

Hermione’s stomach dropped. “Ron, you wouldn’t remember this, but we sort of--talked about this already. When you were in the Hospital Wing.”

“Yeah. I sort of, you know, got pieces of that back,” he said. “Not everything, but in the week or two after, I’d just kind of, remember a bit. Like a dream.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Well, it’s bloody embarrassing, isn’t it? It’s not even like I remember all of it, it’s still fuzzy, but I know enough.” He sighed. “I can’t come second to Malfoy. Not when it comes to this. Not when it comes to you.”

“It was never meant to be a competition,” Hermione said. “I just--at the time, that is--I just liked him. I didn’t go out with him to dig at you.”

“Which is one thing you’ve got on me, I guess.”

“Not that serious about Lavender?”

He shrugged. “She’s all right. She’s not you. Although you’re not what I thought you might be, either.” He put a hand on her knee when he saw the stung expression on her face. “Not like I’m angry with you or anything. Just, you were right. We’re not each other’s first pick, when it comes to being with someone, and that isn’t fair for either of us. We pick each other first, and Harry, as friends. That’s the way we should be, the way we’re strongest. You’re here with me and Harry now, and we should all take care of each other the way we always have.”

“Thank you,” Hermione said. She put her head on his shoulder, and he hugged her, and for a little while that was enough.

That night, Hermione ignored the odd little twinges she felt at dinner. She’d gotten used to a certain kind of teasing and a certain feeling of looking up and seeing that the other person was already looking at you, that was all. Part of her hadn’t caught up to the way things were now. She just needed to give herself time.

And then, in her sleeping bag, she thought of the way he’d held her after the thing with Katie, when all she’d wanted was to talk with her mom, and she was crying as quietly as she could about all of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As you may have noticed, we are well and properly off the canon rails now. For the HBP retelling, I wanted to hug fairly tight to canon because I felt that Draco and Hermione could make a natural pairing, so it mattered to fit their relationship into the HP-verse as-is.   
> Now, though...well, so much has changed by now, hasn't it? All these little ripples from having them actually be together. I still want to play with canon to some extent, but ideally in a much more metamorphosed way, with more riffs and subversions. So as we delve into this new arc, you'll get to see various large or small changes. I hope you will find some good surprises along the way.


	39. The Woods

Hermione was tracking inventory, and when it clicked that the food was diminishing faster because the boys didn’t have much else to do, she realized she’d have to put them to work.

Harry needed time to himself to think. Ron had told Hermione in private that he suspected Harry wouldn’t always show them how he was really feeling, wanting instead to put on an encouraging face for his friends. Hermione and Ron recast the protective warding daily, then asked Harry to forage for berries, mushrooms, fiddlehead ferns, or small, underripe chestnuts to coax into readiness by magic. 

Ron tended to pull in on himself when he was overwhelmed, so Hermione tasked him with creating things for them to do together in the evenings. He was using magic to whittle and charm chess pieces. The basic cutting spell was the same one they’d need if one of them got a puncture wound that needed medical attention, so it would also keep his hand in practice. Hermione wanted him to try a rough broomstick next, in case Harry needed to get out in a hurry and wasn’t near either one of them to Apparate.

As for herself, she had a few books on soul magic. If they were going to seek out and destroy Horcruxes, she needed to know as much about them as possible. Hogwarts, understandably, did not make it easy to find grimoires on the blackest forms of magic, so she’d done her best with a small collection of books covering various attempts to use soul magic to prolong life, or cast spells using emotional bonds to strengthen or seal the magic. The Secret Keeping variation of the Fidelius charm, the one that had protected the Potters (until it hadn’t) was in Hermione’s books, along with familiars, speculation into the creation of the Philosopher’s Stone, and other matters.

It was quite fascinating, really.

That is, for the handful of hours she could spend studying at a time. When she took a break, all the thoughts and worries and emotions rushed back in. There was no time to let herself just go numb.

So it was a relief when Harry asked her to come walk with him one afternoon. Hermione could use some time to scan for blackberries and late raspberries, instead of beating her head against the same chapter she’d read four times over.

Harry led the way, having had the chance to explore the surrounding area more. The ripe berries had been well picked over by birds and by them, over the last few days. Closer to the creek, there was a large fallen tree covered with a thick layer of mushrooms. Hermione had learned most common varieties in the area, and was delighted to recognize them as penny buns. She and Harry set about gathering clusters to take back with them.

After a bit, Harry made a funny sort of cough. “So. I’ve heard you crying, at night, sometimes. A few times, actually.”

“Sorry,” Hermione said. “I didn’t mean to keep you up.”

“You doing okay?”

“I mean. Are any of us, really? I’m making do. We all have ways to get things out of our system.”

Harry slapped at a mosquito. “I don’t mean to be, you know, rude or whatever. I know you said you didn’t want to talk about it. But, er, is it about Malfoy? I thought you might not want to bring it up around Ron, but maybe with just you and me it might be easier.”

Hermione leaned back on her haunches and put her hands on her legs. “Oh, Harry,” she said. “That’s--thanks for looking out for me. That means a lot, especially now.” She wasn’t sure what to say next. Everything inside felt too muddy and jumbled to find a place to start.

“Was that a yes or a no?” Harry said.

“I don’t know,” Hermione said. “I think he’s a little shit who betrayed us.”

“Right, sure.”

“Which would mean we shouldn't bother talking about him. He’s not worth one more second of our time.”

“Okay.”

Hermione dropped a few mushrooms into her sack. “Have you been thinking about him?”

“Sort of?” Harry said. “I keep thinking about all of it, that night. And he’s part of it, so I can’t help it from coming to mind, sometimes.”

“It’s not like you go around feeling sorry for him, though.”

“Well, no, I’m not saying I’m up at nights thinking how rough he’s got it.”

“I’m not, either.”

“Yeah. Sorry, I didn’t mean it like that.”

“If I’ve been thinking about him sometimes, it’s not just about him. He’s just a piece of it, all of it, you know?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I get that.” And he nodded like he did, like he really had been thinking about Draco sometimes, and maybe Hermione wasn’t doing something wrong if it was hard for her to shake loose of it all, too.

“What do you think he’s doing?” Hermione said. “If that’s part of what you think about.”

“I dunno,” said Harry. “He was running toward the edge of the grounds, with Snape, after. They Apparated somewhere. Back to Malfoy Manor, I’d guess.”

“At home, with his family.”

“And whatever Death Eaters are crawling around the place.”

A pang of concern in Hermione’s chest. She was irritated with herself for feeling it. “Good. Serves him right.”

“I guess,” Harry said.

“What do you mean?”

“You worked hard at keeping him away from the Death Eaters, all that time. I'm surprised to hear you say he deserves to be with that lot, now.”

Hermione clenched her hands into fists. “After what he did--what he did to all of us. Even if it wasn't his wand, in the end, so what? It was still our hope and our safety, and our _trust."_ Her voice wobbled on the last word. “I wish I could hurt him back, just like that.”

Harry sat on a clear patch on the fallen tree and clasped his hands loosely in front of him. “Go on, then.”

“What?”

“Tear him apart. You know him well enough.”

“I don't know him at all.”

“You do,” Harry said. “You were together long enough, and I saw how he acted around you. He told you some secrets at least, I'm sure of it. I expect you know plenty about where Malfoy's sensitive spots are. What would you say, if he were here? Go after his father, maybe? Seems a safe bet. Would he care if you called him a coward, or would it be something else? I bet you know exactly what to say, to get him where it would really hurt.”

Hermione did. She could cut him, if she wanted to, if he were here. Part of her did want to, very much. And yet. “That's low,” she said.

“I didn't think you would,” Harry said, looking straight ahead. “You know, at DA meetings, you always looked at him, whenever anyone said something that would bother him? I learned a fair bit of what gets under his skin from watching you.”

“You never used any of it against him.”

“You loved him,” Harry said simply. “You wanted to protect him. I wonder if part of you still does.”

Hermione crossed her arms and shook her head, swallowing down the rock in her throat.

“I don’t want to have anything to do with him.”

“Yeah, that makes sense.”

“It wouldn’t be fair. Right? I mean, I don’t want to, obviously, but it also wouldn’t be right, to look out for him at all at this point. There’s such a thing as going too far. He told me himself, you can’t be on both sides. It’s not fair.” 

“Not much is, lately,” Harry said. “We should get back soon and see if Ron needs help with anything, but I wanted to tell you it was okay. You know. I don’t need you to justify anything to me about how you feel, about anyone.”

They had a radio to stay at least somewhat connected to the rest of the Wizarding world. Ron in particular made sure he was at the campsite in time for Potterwatch, the secret radio program. The worst part came at the end, when the announcers would read off the list of names. The murdered, the missing, those rumored to be captured or tortured by Death Eaters. Hermione and Harry learned quickly not to speak or try to touch Ron during those moments. His whole body was tensed, and he couldn’t tolerate the slightest distraction. Only when the closing music of the news program ended, with no mention of any Weasley’s name, would he let out a shaky breath of relief and come back to them again.

Then, one night, it happened.

“These are difficult times,” Lee Jordan’s voice announced, sounding almost unrecognizable from the cheeky tone of his Quidditch commentary at Hogwarts. “At Potterwatch, we know many of you have been separated from loved ones. The latest updates come courtesy of our guest tonight, Rabbit.”

“Thank you, River,” came a delicate, feminine voice. “Harold Turpin, taken into Ministry custody for questioning three weeks ago, was released to his home, where he died two days ago, as confirmed by Mirabelle and Lisa Turpin. Professor Charity Burbage is missing, presumed captured by Death Eaters. Ginny Weasley’s whereabouts are not accounted for.”

The sound that tore unbidden out of Ron made Hermione jump in her seat. Ron almost knocked the radio over as he left the campsite. Harry hurried after him. Hermione stayed where she was just long enough to catch the password for the next broadcast, then followed the boys down toward the creek.

“--should’ve been there for her!” Ron choked out.

Harry had an arm across Ron’s shoulders. “Steady, steady. We don’t know that she’s hurt. You know Gin, she’s so clever, and so brave. We’ve got to trust her.”

Ron threw Harry’s arm off him. “Easy for you to say,” he growled.

Harry flushed. “It’s really not.”

Hermione reached out toward both of them. “Ron, there’s nothing you could have done. There’s every reason to think she’s still all right. She even took Muggle studies last year, she might be undercover in a Muggle town, investigating. She’s been interested in being a spy for the Order.”

“She’s just trying to get herself in trouble,” Ron said. “Look where it’s got her.”

“If she is a spy, this would actually be a good sign, wouldn’t it? If no one can find her? She just hasn’t been seen for a bit. Let’s not rush to conclusions. She’ll turn up.”

“We don’t know where my sister is,” Ron said, and his face started to screw up. “Oh God, my mum must be frantic.”

Harry looked away, face pained. Hermione put an arm around Ron’s waist to steer him back toward camp. 

“It’s going to be okay,” she soothed.

“You can’t know that.”

“No, but we have to believe it. Keep holding on. They’ll have an update next broadcast, you’ll see. Come on. Let’s get back and get some rest. In the morning, when we’re fresh, we’ll look at our best options for what to do next.”

“That was Luna,” Hermione murmured to Harry later that night by the fire, after Ron had finally fallen asleep. “Rabbit. I’m almost sure of it.”

“It sounded like her,” Harry said.

“So she’s okay, then.”

“Yeah, but Ginny.”

“She’ll be all right,” Hermione said quickly. “Like we told Ron, Luna didn’t say Ginny was hurt or captured. They just don’t know where she is. The whole family might be spreading out.”

“Maybe.”

“She could be with Charlie, even. Bill and Fleur might have smuggled her out of the country.”

“But then she wouldn’t be listed as missing.” 

“He might want to Apparate out, tomorrow morning, if he’s still feeling like this,” Hermione said.

“He should do it,” Harry said. “If he sees his mum and dad, he might feel better.”

“He won’t be able to find his way back here on his own. He doesn't have a strong enough connection to this place,” Hermione said. “It would have to be him and me both, which means it would have to be all three of us. Which is a huge risk to take.”

“But for Ginny--”

“Wherever Ginny is, us Apparating to the Burrow isn’t going to do her any good. It’ll just increase our chances of getting caught, or drawing attention to people at the wrong time. What would Mrs. Weasley say, if we ran out to help and something happened to Ron, or to you?”

Harry threw a twig onto the embers of the fire, sending up sparks. “I hate this.”

“I know. Tomorrow morning, though, I think you ought to talk to Ron and convince him we need to stick together. The worst thing we can do right now is let fear or despair take us and drive us out alone.”

*

In the first week Draco spent in the woods, Snape came back twice. The first time was after three days, and Draco nearly hexed Snape on the spot. Snape ignored Draco’s fuming, dropped a sack of extra food at Draco’s feet, and thrust a book into his hand. 

“Read,” he said. “It will give you something to occupy your mind until I can return. If I do not return, I trust it will prove useful.” As on the night of the Astronomy Tower, he disappeared without waiting to hear what Draco had to say.

Draco kicked at the dirt where his former professor had stood and raged to himself for a while. He almost flung the sack into the bracken, but thought better. Most of the food Snape had packed in the rucksack he’d left in the clearing initially was disgusting. Chewy, salty dried meat, leathery dried fruit, bars with the consistency of clay and a chalky sweetness that coated his tongue. Maybe there’d be a chance of finding something decent in this pack.

When he found the book he’d thrown into the bushes, Draco quieted into seriousness. He recognized it. It was an Herbology textbook, or rather a field guide, from fourth year. It catalogued local vegetation, organized by season, and it concentrated on what was good to eat. Surely Snape didn’t mean Draco could expect to find himself out here long enough to have to forage. 

Two days later, Snape reappeared. After five days without more than ten minutes spent in the company of another person, without a night in a bed or a satisfying meal, Draco wasn’t as quick to raise his voice or pull out his wand.

Snape frowned at a damp heap of wood on the ground. “You’ve been making fires.”

“Yes?”

“You shouldn’t need heat. It’s summer and you have a sleeping roll. You don’t need it for light, either.”

“Lumos isn’t as good.”

“You’re making it too obvious that you’re here.”

Draco raised an eyebrow. “Professor, I’m in the middle of nowhere. I appreciate your thoroughness, but I’m fairly well hidden at this point.”

“The Dark Lord and those who serve him have used these woods before,” Snape said. “For questioning of the Undesirable. Occasionally to perform certain types of magic well-suited to this place. Those who can scent a human might pass by, but it will look suspicious if there are signs you have made yourself...comfortable.”

“Hardly comfortable. I thought you were going to talk to my parents. Have they asked for me? Is it safe for me to go back yet?”

“Of course you can’t go back. The Dark Lord will make an example of you if you do. He’s irritated with your family as it is. I’ve instructed your mother to burn your things, as a sign of her loyalty to the Dark Lord against a traitor.”

Draco shook his head and curled his lip. “She doesn’t think that of me. You’re lying. She wouldn’t.”

“Obviously I’m lying to her. What would you have me do, explain to her in detail that, should the Dark Lord’s anger carry him far enough to track you, there should be as little as possible in the house for a werewolf to take your scent from? What do you think would happen to your mother then, if he tests her mind for her devotion?” Snape looked down his nose at Draco. “I am doing everything in my power to keep your entire family safe, at no small risk to myself. Perhaps you ought to show me more respect, and keep from questioning everything I say when we have limited time to speak.”

Draco had plenty he wanted to say, but he didn’t want Snape to Disapparate again. He gritted his teeth. “Sorry.”

“You need to leave this place,” Snape said. “You’ve left far too many signs.”

“Where do we go?”

“You go,” Snape said. “Have you been listening to anything I’ve said? I have nowhere to take you. I’ve brought a map, and instructions for a few spells you’ll need to use while you’re out here. There is a lake, further west from here. If possible, I can meet you there, but it will likely take several weeks.”

“No.” Draco grabbed Snape by the sleeve. “I can’t be out here by myself for weeks. Did you ask everyone you could? Some parts of my family were disowned, did you talk to them? Don’t leave--”

“Stop it.” Snape freed himself. “I offered you my assistance at a time when I could have done much more for you, and you refused. This is what is within my power now.”

“What happens if I can’t find the lake?”

“If you are not there when I can come next, I will take it that you have died, and at a later date than you would have without me.” That was the last thing Snape said to him.

That was the beginning of the Angry Time. For maybe a week, maybe a little longer (the days started to run together), Draco woke up cursing the damp, the mildew smell of the sleeping roll, his aching back and cold toes, the whirring sound of insects. He wasted energy during the day carrying a branch, smacking trees and bushes like a child for the instant of satisfaction when the impact hummed up into his arm. He cursed the wretched food, but reached for more of it when the days got hot and sticky and he was lonely. He cursed everyone who had left him here--Snape, Dumbledore, the Dark Lord, his father. At night, when darkness made the woods seem so much bigger and every sound could be someone beating an Undesirable to death, Draco made himself small with his back against the biggest tree he could find and waited until the exhaustion was louder than the fear and anger.

He cursed Granger more than once, too. If she hadn’t complicated things. If she hadn’t tried to hard to save him when she knew she couldn’t. If he didn’t have so many incriminating memories of her, and her friends. 

Then what?

He’d be at Malfoy Manor again, with the parents who were so different every time he’d seen them over the last year that it was hard to imagine how they would be now. There would be more tortures, more killing. He would have to do things.

Draco nursed his anger at Granger for as long as he could, because at a certain point in the day his mental reserves ran out. Then he  _ missed  _ her, he missed her enough that he had to close his eyes because he couldn’t handle the proof that he was alone.

What he couldn’t afford to do was indulge himself in fantasy. The Hermione Granger he’d known was gone, in every meaningful sense as far as his connection to her was concerned. It was already a miracle she’d stayed by him after Katie Bell. She’d loathe him now. Missing her was only prolonging the inevitable, loving a ghost. The person he’d known may as well have died on the Astronomy Tower night, too.

He woke himself up one night murmuring, “She’s gone” in his sleep, and that was his best guess at when the worst of the Angry Time passed and new problems arose.

Sanity, for one. Two weeks, most of them alone. Draco found a quill in his pack and started circling plants he spotted in the field guide Snape gave him, jotting notes in the margins, adding his own sketches in the blank pages in the back. A few more days, and he started collecting a few specimens, for experiments, he told himself at first. Acorns would need to be soaked in clean water for at least a full day, for example, more likely two or three before enough of the tannins would be leached away to make them edible. Draco did it as a way to pass some time and give himself something new to do. 

Until, at the end of the third week, he looked over the food stores in his pack and realized he might have a problem. 

Acorns, once the bitterness was soaked out, tasted like nothing much. Bland and damp. He made himself eat a handful while he was walking, saving the clay bars for meals. Ever since Snape’s warning, Draco was afraid to build a fire and try cooking anything, so catching fish or birds was out. 

There was a marsh roughly along the way he needed to follow, maybe half a day’s journey out from the quickest route he’d marked for himself. Marshes, the field guide told him, meant food. Nothing he’d normally recognize as edible, but cattails, marsh mallow, chervil, water mint, and sorrel might be there for the taking. 

Draco debated it for a few days before changing his course toward the marsh. Time was a problem, too. As best as he could guess from tracking spells and his map, he was a few days behind where he should be to feel sure he’d arrive at the lake Snape had indicated on time. But if he chose the shorter route and ran out of food, maybe he wouldn’t make it there at all. 

There was nowhere else to go. He kept walking.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Earlier on in writing this fic, I was reading etiquette columns, reading up on proper society cocktail wear. At this point, I looked up what I could on the Forest of Dean: the weather, the foliage, what would be ripe this time of year, how many calories there are in acorns, or cattail root, or various other things. I want to be fairly realistic about how Draco might fare out here.  
> Draco is young, and healthy, and he has access through magic to an unlimited supply of clean drinking water, which is important for healthy organ function and avoiding pathogens. He's never had a ton of extra fat to burn, but he's also been fairly athletic. He's out here in a good time of year for foraging.  
> But scraping together about 1200-1400 calories or so from things in his pack and what he can graze on along the way isn't a great situation for a 17-year-old boy who needs to cover some substantial mileage every day.


	40. The Marsh

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Minor canon change: I can't remember how much, if anything, Hermione knew about the Mirror of Erised? It's possible I've revised history slightly on this point.
> 
> Major canon change: Um. Everything else in this chapter?

He wasn’t going to make it. Draco chewed his lip, read over the map again, cast the spell to check his coordinates. A tiny black dot appeared on the map. There was always the possibility that he was miscasting a spell he’d had to teach himself over the last few weeks, but he was worried that he was too good to fumble a simple incantation. More likely, the dot showed him where he actually was. Which was not as close to the lake as he ought to be. Draco had forgotten, in his calculations, that hiking through wetlands would be slower going than the woods route he’d originally mapped, in addition to covering more distance.

He squished through the mud to a deeper section of marsh, with little ripples of fresh water moving lazily downstream. Mealtimes didn’t exist anymore, in the traditional sense. When Draco found food, he ate it. What little packaged food remained in his pack was sacred, not to be touched, scarcely to be thought about. He was hungry all the time, and he didn’t have enough left to change that. Saving the last two energy bars for a day when he didn’t come across anything he could eat could be critical.

Cattails were edible, if you ripped open the stalks and chewed on the tender bit inside. So was the slippery, stringy inner bark of pine trees he passed. Acorns gave you a stomachache if you ate more than a handful or two a day, no matter how much water you soaked them in. 

Being out here by himself necessitated finding a way to give the days some semblance of order. Draco needed things to look forward to. With steady meals out, he had to get creative.

As something of a bitter joke with himself, he’d pulled out some of his usual soaps and hair products when he first got to the marsh. To his surprise, having a proper wash made him feel more human that he’d expected. He’d repeated the practice daily since then. He got to cool off and relax in the hottest part of the day, feel clean, smell the way he liked, have a think that wasn’t, “Can I eat that plant?”

Draco was thinking about his options now. He thought he’d feel more panicked about not making it to the meeting with Snape. He felt...strange. Sort of floaty. Hopefully not just the hunger talking, there, but he didn’t think it was.

For the first time all year--scratch that. For the first time quite possibly in living memory, no one expected anything from Draco. His friends thought he was dead. His parents, too, probably. Anyone on either side of the war who suspected otherwise wanted to kill him, which was admittedly a serious problem, but it also meant neither side was trying to get him to do anything. There were no missions, no secrets anymore.

The question was what to do now.

“Ugh, I think it’s in my boot.”

Draco crouched neck-deep in the water. He hadn’t heard another person’s voice in weeks. Part of him wanted to burst out of the marsh, stark naked like a bloody lunatic, and run toward any human connection. Fortunately, the saner part of him had a fair grasp of the situation. 

“You’re such a complainer.” A second voice, affecting annoyance, but clearly friendly. “Have a seat somewhere and shake it out, if you’re so worried about a bit of muck.”

“Eh, it’s fine. It’s not much mud. Although if there’s a leech in here, I’m putting it in your coffee tomorrow.”

Draco paddled a little closer to the voices and peeked. Just over the rise, two young men in weird clothes and bulky backpacks with lots of harnesses and straps were hiking at the edge of the marsh. Muggles.

He started paddling for the edge of the marsh, silent, trying to think what kind of story they might believe. Maybe he’d been on some barbaric hiking expedition, too, and got separated from his friends? If they would just listen. If they would just help get him somewhere, anywhere, as long as it was away from here. If he could get ahold of an owl, or make his way to some city that held a passage back. If they would only turn their heads and see that someone else was--

Someone else was here. Draco’s body registered the danger before his mind consciously caught up, and he swallowed a mouthful of algae with his gulp of air before disappearing underwater. Spasming below the surface, he realized he’d responded to a sound. The crisp snap in the air that he’d learned, from Snape’s visits, meant Apparation. 

“Let’s try this again, Diggle,” came a silky voice on the other side of the marsh when Draco surfaced. “Now you’ve got a quiet place to think. Potter. Where is he?”

“I don’t know, you brainless coot,” Diggle replied, irritated, then grunted in pain.

“Mm, you’ve mixed us up again,” the silky voice said. “Gaige, I’ll admit, doesn’t have much of a spark upstairs. He’s the one who doesn’t need it. I’ve always fancied I could have made quite a name for myself at Hogwarts, if I’d gotten to stay.”

Another groan.

“You’ll tell us apart soon. Gaige,” the voice continued, “is the one with those nice shiny things wrapped ‘round his fists. I’m the one who tells him to stop, so you and I can go over a few questions.”

“You’re both cretins,” Diggle countered, “that was the worst Apparating job I’ve ever seen and it’s a wonder no one got splinched, and I have no idea where Harry Potter is.”

“Bad at your job, then,” came a low voice Draco assumed was Gaige, finally contributing something other than pounding noises to the conversation. “Not like us, right, Anders?”

“Stop. Let him talk. He’s no good to us unconscious.”

By the time Draco reached a place in the water where he could see the three wizards, Diggle was slumped to his knees between the Snatchers. He was harder to understand now. His voice sounded wet. “Watched--Potter--as a kid. Not since--Hogwarts. Telling you. I  _ don’t know. _ Let me go. Just let me go.”

“Everything all right over there?” One of the Muggles called out. Draco watched him walk toward the other three, hands out. “Listen, mate, take it easy, all right? Whatever argument you’ve got, no need to get rough with each other. You’ll just make it harder to finish your trail.”

“Who the devil are you?” said Anders.

“What’s he got on?” said Gaige.

“Move along!” yelled Diggle, before Gaige smacked him in the ribs with a tight hand.

“You’re a Muggle, aren’t you?” said Anders.

“What are you talking about? What’s going on here?” said the Muggle.

There was a flash of green light.

The other Muggle rushed forward, as if that was going to do any good, or make anything different for him, and then they were both lying still on the bank.

Anders and Gaige turned back to Diggle, frustrated. Anders didn’t look like he was trying for oily coolness anymore. They both reached for either side of the man between them.

Diggle cast a bleary, hopeless look over the water, not wanting to look the Snatchers in the face at the end, and unmistakably caught Draco’s eye. He opened his mouth.

Draco urinated. 

Then he gulped air and dove back under. There was nothing else to do. There was nowhere else to go. He stayed under until the breath came out, bubble by bubble. When the air was gone, fear kept him under, his body bucking of its own accord, seeking the surface he couldn’t let himself reach. Sparks blinked at the edges of his vision. He gasped at the surface and dove again, shuddering with the certainty that a metal-wrapped fist would grab him, but when he had to come up again, all he saw were three limp figures on the ground. Draco turned, searching every gap between the trees. 

The Snatchers were gone.

Draco still waited, chin deep in brackish water, too terrified to move. Even with the heat of the day, his fingers and toes eventually got cold, then numb. Every time he thought about climbing out of the marsh, his eyes flicked back to where the Snatchers had appeared, and he shrank back down.

At a certain point, he became aware that his clothes and pack were still deposited near the bank. Everything he had was there. His wand. If the Snatchers were to come back, and if they noticed his things, it wouldn’t take long to find him, and he would be completely defenseless.

He got out, shivering, scrambled to his belongings, grabbed for his wand before reaching for clothing. He crouched, looked around, listening for any disturbance or human sound. A few spells to dry and warm himself, and a change of clothing, and he didn’t feel like he was about to pass out, although he was still tired. And hungry.

And the inescapable truth was that there were others, so nearby, who would have expected to eat another meal today.

He crept closer. The two Muggles were lying on their backs, blank eyes staring at the sky. He didn’t know which one had been bothered by mud in his shoe. 

A mosquito landed on one of the men’s open eye. Draco waved the insect away. He crouched by the body. He didn’t want to touch it, but more mosquitoes would come. He closed the man’s eyes, then his friend’s. Then, sick as it made him feel, he rolled the Muggles’ bodies so he could spill out the contents of their packs.

Draco could have cried at the stuff that was in there. Granola, dried fruit, more of the claylike bars, nuts. He crouched a short distance away, cracked a can of tuna with his wand with so much force he nearly blasted the tin into pieces, and shook flakes of sharp, metallic-tasting fish from the ragged edges of the can into his mouth. He ate five bars, a bag of dried apricots, enough peanuts to crimp the corners of his mouth with salt. At a certain point, he was full enough to look up, and Merlin.

He was a ghoul. Looting fresh bodies, gorging himself a few feet away from the dead. What kind of bloody fever dream had convinced him he could crawl out of the muck and ask the Muggles to help him? What had he expected they would see?

Hands laced with scars. Ropey white ridges tunneling across his chest and abdomen. A black deathshead on his arm. If he were lying in the marsh with the others, what could he hope for anyone to think of him, if they found him? His body would speak for him for the rest of his life, if he let it. 

But what other choice did he have?

_ Not this. _ He’d earned most of his scars one by one, each misstep etching itself in. If there were two roads open to him now, one way would be quick, a matter of getting caught at the wrong time by the wrong person, just once. The other was long and painful, and in all honesty there was no promise of reaching the end and finding that the things he did right could mark him bit by bit the same way his mistakes did. But he could choose it.

A feeling plucked in his chest. Not hope. Not something quite so powerful as that. Draco had never been good at optimism to begin with, and he’d had plenty of time to think over every damning thing he had done. 

He couldn’t stand to see himself be this ghoul until he died. He couldn’t hope for safety or acceptance or more chances, but he could try to get closer to the people who made him feel like himself, not a pawn or a monster. He had to believe that version of himself really did exist, even if the mark he’d made in the world so far said differently.

Granger may or may not help him directly, but no one else made him feel clearer. The way she burned with her own faith in what she believed was right. Draco needed her. Whatever else happened to him, if it happened when he was near her, at least he would know that at the end, he was reaching as best as he could toward that faith, even if he never felt it. 

He would get out of the woods. And, somehow, if he survived, he would find a way back to Hermione Granger.

*

Hermione was patrolling the perimeter with Harry again a few days after their last conversation. When they were at the furthest point from the campsite, she finished up her spellwork and tucked her wand away.

“I’ve been thinking about what you said. About--Malfoy. Draco. Him. You know.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“You, er. Want to talk about it?”

“Yeah. Maybe. If you do.”

“I would, actually. I’ve sort of been thinking about it too,” Harry said. “My mind keeps coming back to that night, obviously, for lots of reasons. I keep thinking about what he said, at the end. Riddle was going to kill his whole family if Malfoy couldn’t do it.”

Hermione nodded. “He was so scared all year. You-Know-Who threatened him more than once. Threatened doesn’t even feel like the right word. He just told Draco what he’d do,” she said. “But that doesn’t change what Draco did, either.”

“It doesn’t,” Harry agreed. “But. Have I told you about the Mirror of Erised?”

“No.”

“It was a long time ago, first year, before you were hanging out with me and Ron much yet. If you look into it, you see your deepest desire. I saw my parents with me.” There was something yearning in his face, even now. “I spent days in front of it. Dumbledore eventually found me and got me away from it. He said it’s not healthy to waste your life wishing for things that can’t happen.”

“God, that must have been so hard. You’d barely even seen photos of them at that age.”

“It was tough, yeah. Seeing Malfoy up there that night, though, it sort of brought it all back. I had a thought, later, that if you’d shown us both the mirror, just then, we’d have seen the same thing. Ourselves, safe, with our parents.”

Hermione held her breath. Harry looked miserable and ashamed. When he didn't speak, she nudged her shoulder against him. “Tell me. It's okay. No judgement, I promise.”

Harry’s voice came out almost at a whisper. He didn’t look at her when he said it. “If it had been me. If my parents were alive, and hurting someone could save them. If I’d lose them if I didn’t. Hermione, I don’t know what I would have done, if I’d been the one standing there.”

“You’re not a killer.”

Harry’s mouth did a bitter twitch. “Doesn’t do Sirius any good. Cedric, either. The three of us are only out here because being seen with me puts a target on people’s back.”

“That’s not your fault. You can’t help it if a madman is fixated on you, threatening people you love.”

“Yeah.” Harry scuffed his feet through a scrubby patch of grass, sending puffs of dry earth up to coat his shoes. “Just--explain it again, would you? Why you’re okay with me. You don’t have to forgive Malfoy--if there’s a Wizarding world left at the end of all this, I guess most people won’t. I just need to hear why I’m still a good person, then, after the things that happened because of me.”

“Harry, you were just trying to protect--” Hermione’s chest felt tight. “It’s just different. You aren’t him. You can see that, can’t you?”

Harry sounded tired. “Yeah. Yeah, of course I can.” 

Hermione eyed him. “Why did you hurt him, that time in the bathroom? You cornered him.”

“Hell, Hermione, don’t you think I feel guilty enough?”

“You never gave me an honest answer.”

“I don’t know,” he said. “I was so angry, and he and I never got on, and it--it was stupid. It was a mistake. I shouldn’t have done it. I’m sorry, but I don’t have a better answer for you.”

They walked for a few minutes together. When they rounded a bend and saw the tent, Hermione said, “I think I need to go.”

“What do you mean? Where are you going?”

“Not forever. Just maybe a few days? I don’t have a good answer yet, either. I need to think, and listen, and feel however I need to without worrying about what anyone will see. I wouldn’t go far. I just can’t be the person I need to be, when it’s me with you and Ron. It’s nothing either of you have done, but I need to sort it out on my own.”

“When would you want to go?”

“Tonight, if I can. I can try and explain it to Ron at dinner tonight.”

Harry shook his head. “I’ll do it. You go where you need to. I’ll make him understand.”

*

Draco dragged his feet over the sodden ground. He’d left the main water behind, but underground marshwater made the terrain soggy for miles. Every step felt heavy. He was headed for a section of the map further west even than Snape’s lake. There were clearings there, which likely meant Muggle campgrounds, or even Wizarding ones. He’d disguise himself, find people, and beg for help getting to a city.

He kept Granger in his head. It was so easy to lose focus, get bleary. If he’d learned anything at all out here, it was that food was only one part of it. The destination gave everything else meaning. It made it worth it to keep checking the map, marking progress, rationing out food, counting distance walked against set times to rest. Reminding himself that all this ended with him seeing her kept Draco putting one foot in front of the other. He was trying to sort through the jumble in his head and figure out what in the world he would say.

Then a sound caught his attention. Animals moved in quick flurries or cautious steps. Rhythmic, purposeful footsteps were a telltale sign of humanity. 

Impossible. It was delirium finally setting in. 

It was Hermione Granger. Tan pants, purple shirt, hair cascading over her shoulders. Draco could smell her, apricot conditioner and a hint of sweat. She looked at him, eyes round, eyebrows high in shock. She had her wand out.

“What are you doing here?” she said.

“I--” Draco dropped the walking stick he’d been using to keep rhythm. “How are you here?” he croaked.

“I came out in the woods, by myself. I wanted to find you.” She sounded almost dreamy, like she couldn’t believe what she was seeing, either, and had to tell herself the story to make it real. Her feet snapped twigs as she walked closer. No mirage, then. “I should have let you rot.”

Draco’s breath was shallow. “I wanted to see you, I wanted you so much. Everything went wrong, all of it. It’s my fault. I know that. I don’t know how to fix it, but I wanted to find you.”

“Stop it.” She shook her head. “I thought I could handle this. I thought maybe if I could just see you--” Her lip curled up for just a second, showing her teeth. “I should have known better. You told me so many times what you really are, and I never listened.”

“What am I?” he whispered.

“I never once called you a Death Eater. You know that? I stood by you, and you _broke my heart."_ Granger’s thumb slid back and forth in a groove in the wand’s handle. “I never meant anything to you. I was a way to blow off steam, when you needed a break from working to be an assassin. Did you want to laugh in my face every time you fucked me?”

“No--no! How could you think that?” Draco’s heartbeat was in his ears, just under the skin. “Granger, you were the only good part of my life last year. The rest was hell. It still is. I’ve been out here alone, and--please, you have to believe me, I didn’t want this.”

Her mouth twisted. “You deserve it. You deserve all of it. You pathetic, snivelling coward, do you realize the pain you’ve caused?” Her wand hand twitched. “Maybe you deserve to feel what you made the rest of us feel.”

“No. Granger, don’t.” Draco put a hand out. “Wait. Granger. Hermione, let me talk to you for one--put it down, put your wand down!”

“Crucio,” she whispered.

And the pain hit him.


	41. Soul Magic

Draco knew something about pain.

When he was three, he burned his hand on a stove. A House Elf named Pisky, who was cooking, healed the burn before Lucius or Narcissa could see. It left no scar.

When he was ten, he broke his leg when he fell off a broomstick. His father bought him a better broom and spent Draco's eleventh birthday with him, teaching him to fly steady and sure.

When he was thirteen, a Hippogriff clawed his arm.

When he was sixteen, the Vanishing Cabinet ripped the flesh from his hand.

When he was sixteen, the Dark Mark’s spasms woke him up at night.

When Draco Malfoy was sixteen, over spring break, Lucius Malfoy, in a moment of desperation and terror and fury at a son who was putting Narcissa’s life in danger by his failure to fulfill his tasks, cast the Cruciatus Curse on the boy in an attempt to shock him into obedience.

What was happening to Draco now, as he lay on the ground with Granger standing over him, wasn't Cruciatus. The pain was wrong. The Cruciatus Curse had ripped through him like something alive, cracking his bones from the inside by turning his marrow into acid, jerking his muscles as his body fought to get away from itself. This pain, while fierce, was simpler and shallower, more like fiery stinging over his skin.

This wasn’t the curse. Which meant it couldn’t be Hermione, either.

He grasped for his wand, dropped in the shock of encountering her, and his fingers squelched in muck when they closed around the hawthorn. The slimy feel of the mud was what made him realize it. He was walking the edge where the marsh met the forests--where Boggarts lived. This creature wearing Granger’s shape and voice was preying on his fear, feeding on it.

“Riddikulus.” Draco cast in his mind for an image to accompany the spell. Nothing struck him as funny right now. And he wanted so badly to see her. Part of him didn’t want to ruin the illusion. Changing the appearance of the Granger in front of him would only be proof that he was still far away, and maybe he’d never make it back to her at all.

Granger’s lips lifted as she sensed the new surge of fear rushing through him. She slunk closer. She didn’t move like Granger did, Draco thought.The real Granger was strident and bossy and walked in a bouncy march. She knocked into things sometimes when she was excited or distracted. She didn’t stalk like this.

Still, Draco faltered. The steady, unrelenting grip Granger had on her wand, and the coldness in her face, flattened him.

And that’s where the Boggart made its mistake. 

“It’s because you know I’m right,” Granger’s voice whispered. “It doesn’t matter anymore. Not after what you’ve done. It would be the same, it would happen like this, whichever one of us was here. You’d get what you deserve, you stupid, hateful boy.”

Draco coughed against a fresh lancing of pain across his chest. “She’s really not good at hating people,” he murmured.

It was true, wasn’t it? Even if she did hate him, or said she did, she’d never do this. He was sure of it. Draco’s head felt oddly clear, even though he was gasping for breath, and it was strange to think that a moment ago he’d thought this thing was her. He couldn’t see Granger this way at all.

Because she would never see him this way. Whatever had happened, whatever he’d failed to tell her and failed to do and failed to be, Granger was going to see what he _was,_ and she would never hurt him like this. He was always, always, always going to be worth more than that to her. And Draco knew what he had to do.

He pointed his wand at the Granger-thing. “Expecto Patronum.”

He felt the rush of the magic before he saw it, and for the span of an instant it was as though he was inside the Patronus, and where the pain had been his whole body was singing  _ yes, yes, yes _ with recognition and relief.

Sleek, fast, intelligent. Social, needing a community, a family, to survive. Arrogant, sure. A show-off, without question. But playful, graceful. A creature that understood something about joy.

The dolphin arced out of his wand, shining silver. It charged at the Boggart, powerful tail beating the air. It swirled around the figure as the last traces of pain evaporated from Draco’s body. For a second, when the dolphin wasn’t blocking his view with its silver light, he saw the Granger-thing’s face. It didn’t look anything like her.

And then it was gone, and Draco was lying on his back in a stinking puddle of muck and rotten leaves, watching this elegant, shining thing he’d made sweep overhead, and his laughter was quivery and disbelieving, but he heard it.

*

Hermione set her pack down by a small lake, barely more than a pond, half a day’s walk from the campsite. At Harry and Ron’s encouragement, she’d stayed at their camp an extra night and left at daybreak. This should do well enough--close enough that Harry's or Ron's Patronus could reach her if important news broke, but far enough away that she could take a walk alone, if she wanted.

On the first day, or afternoon, really, she set up her small tent, cast a few basic warding spells, and sat by the lake with her head in her hands. She’d been working and working and working to meet needs and be capable and test the waters before showing any kind of emotion herself, so for a little while she just cried so hard she almost scared herself.

She gave herself the hiccups, which was the stupidest, least glamorous way to grieve possible, and she was blowing out enough snot to make her face slimy.

“Ew,” she said, and hiccupped again. She almost wanted to laugh at herself, but not really, so she wiped her face and looked at the sun reflecting off the water.

This wasn’t how Hermione had imagined becoming an adult. She could admit, out here, the resentment she felt toward Harry and Ron. Ron was sick with worry over Ginny, but he still had a family. Devastating as it would be to lose any one of the Weasleys, he wasn’t alone. Harry didn’t have parents, but the only real family he had was the one he’d found through Hogwarts. Neither of them understood what it meant to lose a family and world you loved, in one stroke. By your own hand. And scarcely anyone even knew, never mind understood. The Order rushed to guide and soothe Harry, but Hermione had to push her pain aside because Harry was the one who was Chosen, and she was his friend.

That was part of it, really. Why the needling voice in her head and her heart couldn’t let go of Draco. In a world that had so much to say about the Chosen One, he’d chosen her. And because he was a stupid, broken, terrified, guarded imbecile, he’d left, and everything was that much harder because he was gone.

So for the evening, Hermione caught herself a fish from the lake and cleaned it, built herself a fire, and let herself be sad without worrying who might see.

On the second day, as she walked around the lake, she was perturbed to find an abandoned pack on the far side. Hermione tested the pack from a distance with a few spells to make sure it wasn’t booby-trapped or cursed, then approached and opened it. It was full of food, which she knew better than to touch. There was also a note.

_ You weren't here. Had to leave. If you’re alive, send Branwen to alert me and I will come. There is a possibility of a place. _

_ ~S _

“Branwen?” Hermione said. A hooting response came, and an eagle owl fluttered down to a branch near Hermione’s eye level. It cocked its head to look at her.

“Interesting,” Hermione said. Keeping one eye on the bird, she rummaged around in the pack until she found a package of beef jerky. She twisted a small piece off and tossed it underhand at the owl. Branwen caught it in her beak, chewed thoughtfully, and spat it out. 

Hermione left the pack behind, noting that the owl didn’t follow her, and resolved to strengthen the warding when she got back to her site. There hadn’t been any signs that the note-writer had stayed any significant length of time, and after all the note said whoever it was had left, so she felt fairly safe still. It just did to be careful.

Finding her walking rhythm again helped her let her mind drift. It settled, again, on the question of just what she was doing out here.

Hermione had always believed that certain things were incontrovertibly _right._ Justice was as clear as a compass direction, and part of being a good person was orienting yourself in that direction, no matter how many people made fun of you for it. What she hadn’t considered before now was that she’d also spent a lot of time believing that some things, then, must also be incontrovertibly, equally wrong. If justice was fixed and unwavering, it would cast a shadow, and it had been easy for a long time to believe that anyone who fell in that shadow wouldn’t be worth saving.

But she’d crept into her own living room like a thief and sucked the memories out of her parents without even looking in their faces.

And Draco...what hadn’t he done? He’d lied. He’d cast an Unforgivable curse, and probably attempted another. He’d brought about the assassination of Dumbledore, and destroyed the place where Hermione should have felt safe. 

Well, but look at the rest of the facts or it wouldn’t be fair. His life was in danger. And his parents’. Not to mention that when it really came down to the fateful moment, he couldn’t even do what he’d been commanded to, even knowing that failure could destroy his family. It wasn’t fair to call that cowardice, not when the options were being a coward or a murderer. Gryffindor as she may be, Hermione couldn’t find a way to twist his faltering hand into yet another fault. 

But whatever came over him in that moment--compassion, or pity, or remorse, or fear--could a last-minute change of heart be enough to justify looking at him with anything but revulsion? No. But Hermione knew far too well that it wasn’t a last-minute change. He’d wanted desperately to have a way out, had done everything she’d asked him to try, and in the end he was still climbing the Tower. And now Hermione had to untangle everything she felt about all of it before she could move forward. The thing was, it was sounding less and less to her like she needed to try to understand Draco.

You could believe in unwavering, universal justice. You could believe in unconditional, life-giving love. But Hermione was beginning to suspect you couldn’t commit yourself to both at the same time. You could have both in your life to some extent, but one fully and one only in part. Justice and love weren’t opposites. They needed each other, or justice would turn cruel and love would protect evil. At certain points, though, complicated things would happen, and it wouldn’t be possible to live both sides out perfectly. It was a matter of deciding which she wanted to strive toward as best as she could, and which she couldn’t live without, and would make the guiding force of her life.

So who would she be, if she chose the clean light of justice and reserved love for when it was possible?

She’d be simpler, for one. Her world would have clearer answers and sharper lines. People would fit or they wouldn’t.

She’d be harder. Strong, yes, but a rigid strength. There wouldn’t be room to bend. If she’d held to justice when it meant condemning someone she loved, she wouldn’t muster much sympathy for other people who cared about those who fell on the wrong side.

And after all this was over, if there was a magical world left, would it be full of monsters? Who could she trust, after knowing what people did in a war? How could she trust herself, even if she could reverse the spell and pretend that was enough to undo what she had done?

Well then, what was the alternative? If she forgave people. If she forgave  _ him,  _ of all people. What if choosing love meant compromising over and over again, until she lost herself? What he deserved was never going to resolve itself into a clear answer. It was more a question of who she was, looking at him.

If Hermione forgave Draco for this, in the face of both the grand and excruciatingly personal levels of his betrayal, she could forgive anything.

If she didn’t, after how deeply she’d loved him and how well she understood the anguish behind why he had done what he’d done, she couldn’t forgive anyone.

On the third day, from the outside, it didn’t look like Hermione did all that much. She caught and roasted another fish. She spent a lot of time reading.

On the fourth day, Hermione got up early. She drank cold tea leftover from last night. Building a fire for a hot breakfast, and putting the fire out properly, would take too much time. She had work to do. She packed up the tent neatly and organized the other odds and ends back into her pack, except for the spell book.

It fell open to the page she wanted. Small wonder, that. In all the hours of studying since she’d come out to the forest, she kept coming back to the Fidelius charm. Hermione still wasn’t certain she bought into everything Dumbledore had told her about magic and souls. It still felt like there should be more certainty, when talking about something so important. The way your friends changed you made sense to her, though. She was a different person than she had been, or would have been, if Harry and Ron hadn’t rescued her from a troll first year. She could believe that people could change your soul, and that knowing things (secrets, hopes, fears, longings) that belonged to the people who had changed you had power.

The Fidelius charm could hide people and locations. That much, everyone knew. The tragedy of Harry’s parents’ betrayal by their Secret-Keeper was the kind of history that turned into legend. What fewer people knew was that hiding was only one variation of the Fidelius charm. Promising to hide the people you loved was one way to protect them. Promising to find them again was another.

Any variation of Fidelius was complex and multi-faceted. An ancient charm, most likely invented during times at least as tumultuous as these, it would need conditions to prevent the magic from endangering the caster. Hermione poised her wand hand and frowned in concentration at the text. A last practice swish, and she was ready to begin.

So. Begin with the identification of who the spell was meant to connect. That was straightforward enough, although even so, it was strange to speak yourself into a work of magic. Hermione was used to practicing spells on things outside of herself. She hadn’t expected to feel the spell as it settled on her. It made all of her skin prickle into goosebumps, and then she felt light and awake, like she’d jumped into cold water. Surprising, but nice, clarifying.

The next stage of the charm was more complicated. There needed to be a mirroring. This protected both people, but especially the caster. If the lost person deserted, or replaced the caster with someone else, or if the caster’s hope soured and they started to think of revenge instead of reunion, the charm would dissolve. The spell had to recognize the intent on both sides, to maintain the connection. Hermione slowed down her wandwork to keep the movements precise.

“Claritas conducit,” she said. “Bona ostende. Volunta vitae. Volunta aequo. Volunta pretium.” To see the whole of the person, and use it to make them trust in the good parts you could see. To want things for someone--life, peace, worthiness--and do what you could to protect those things. To try as hard as you could to keep faith.

Kissing wasn’t love. Nor were butterflies, or gifts, or even secrets shared. Hermione didn’t know how much she wanted, or how much she could promise, if this worked and they did find each other someday. Chances were she’d ream him out hard enough to scare passers-by. Love as a kind of choice that sprang from the deepest, steadiest level of herself she could find felt right, though, so she reached as deep as she could and tried to send that through her wand arm.

When she was done, Hermione put her pack on and bit her lip. She was a little tired already. There was a four-hour hike to do to get back, and then she’d have to seal the spell. That was the bit she wasn’t particularly looking forward to.

She got back a little before four. Harry and Ron’s faces lit up when they saw her. They wanted to sit her down and fill her in on all the news she’d missed from Potterwatch, but she shook her head.

“I need to talk with you first. Both of you, might as well. You both ought to be part of it.”

“Everything all right?” Ron said.

“Yeah. I think so. It will be. I got to do some thinking, and I started working on a spell, while I was on my own.”

“What kind of a spell?” Harry said.

“Fidelius.”

Ron cocked his head. “We’ve got plenty of warding on the camp as it is, don’t you think? That’s meant for something more long-term.”

Hermione opened the spellbook. “This Fidelius.”

The boys craned their necks toward the page.

Harry looked up, eyebrows knitting. “Hermione, is this a good idea?” he started.

“I’ve already done most of it, and I don’t know how the magic’s going to affect me if you don't help me finish it, so please,” Hermione said. “Sit down, right there, both of you. And don’t interrupt. I need to be as precise as I can, and it’s hard enough to say it to you as it is.”

They sat across the firepit together, Harry and Ron on one side facing her. There was only a simple charm to do, naming them as Keepers of the spell. All they had to do was be willing to listen. The strength of the magic would come from her part. Knowing what you wanted was one thing, but being brave enough to say it aloud to someone else amplified the power of the magic.

“I love him. Draco. I love Draco, even though that sounds incredibly bloody stupid right now,” she said. Ron made a surprised sound, but she ignored it. “I want him to be okay. I want--ugh.” She put her hands over her eyes so she didn’t have to look the boys in the face and plunged ahead. “I want us to be on the same side. I want him back. I don’t even know if I mean back like, you know, but. Maybe? I want there to be a pathway, I suppose. I want to believe that if the world ever makes sense again, there’d be a way for us to be good to each other.” 

“But he's a Death Eater,” Ron said, although there wasn’t much heat behind the words.

Hermione sighed. “Then Harry's a murderer, and I'm a torturer, and you'll have a word for yourself, too. I don’t want this war to seal any of us as the worst aspects of ourselves, and for me that means Draco’s part of that, too. If he’s chosen the Death Eaters, there’s nothing I can do about that. If he hasn’t, though, if he’s trying. Then I don’t want either of us to be ready to give up.” There was one more ripple of magic, and then she felt empty and shivery all over. There was a sense that an uncomfortable internal pressure had gone away, even if it left her feeling untethered. 

“Can I have a hug?” she said.

They sat on either side of her and rubbed her back until most of the shakiness went away.

“So. That’s it?” said Ron.

“That’s it,” she said. “I’ve done my part now.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I spent the better part of a year turning over various parts of this chapter before I reached the point of being ready to write it. It's possibly my favorite chapter in the entire fic, and the one I feel most vulnerable about posting. Writing will come for pieces of yourself, too.


	42. Fidelius

It was impossible to say for certain whether the same Boggart was tracking Draco, or whether there were others in the region to catch the scent of an exhausted, weakened human boy struggling his way forward, a quarter mile at a time (but healing, too, a little, bolstered by the better food from the Muggles’ packs). Either way, it wasn’t the last time Draco came across Granger unexpectedly in the wood.

He truly believed it was her, every time. Something about the enchantment the Boggart created. It was like being in a dream. Draco never thought to question, at first, why Granger would be wandering on her own out here. There certainly wasn’t anything to question in the way she reacted, until the creature got cocky and the vision of Granger turned crueler than Draco could quite believe, even in his worst fears.

Sometimes he saw two in a day. Sometimes he made it through a day without encountering her. Whenever it happened, even after he realized through a haze of dread that something wasn’t right and managed to send the dolphin to prove it, he had to rest longer and comfort himself before he could keep going. The moment he saw her again, and believed it was her this time, was what stuck with him the longest, since it seemed most likely to be true.

Her eyes were cold and hard with disdain. She pointed her wand at him.

“I should have known I'd find you cowering out here.”

She fired a blast of raw energy at him as soon as their eyes met.

“Stop looking for me.”

Her hair was matted, face a mess of cuts and dirt. She cringed when she saw him, body poised to flee. “What are you doing here?” She pulled her wand out. “Harry! Ron! Help!”

Her wand hand shook. “I thought I was never going to see you again.” Voice low, guttural with held-back tears. “I never want to.”

Her top was sweat-stained, hair pulled into two thick braids. She had her wand out.

“What are you doing here?” she demanded.

“Hermione,” he said, and the rest of the words he wanted to say caught in his throat. She was still clenching her fingers around her wand.

“I thought I was never going to see you again,” she said. 

“Hermione, please,” he said, his voice cracking. “I tried to find you.”

She started crying, and she launched herself into him hard enough to knock the wind out of him, arms wrapping tight around him, nails digging into his back. “I’m so angry with you.”

He put his hands on her back. She felt warm. The shape of her felt right. His body was still flooding him with alarm signals, heart beating faster, part of him wanting to pull away.

“Don’t make me go,” he said.

Her cheek was squished against his neck. “You idiot, you’re not going anywhere,” she said, and then finally Draco knew it was actually her this time, and he was crying, too, making her shirt wet where he pressed his face into her shoulder. Her name was the only thing that seemed worth saying, or possible to say at all. He whispered it into her hair, not knowing whether she heard it. The shampoo smell was long gone, replaced with the scents of leaf mold and smoke. It didn’t matter. It was her hair, her skin. She smelled like home.

She held him tighter, bunching the fabric of his shirt in her hands, clinging to him. He could feel her breath on his skin. Her hand rubbed down his back in the familiar gesture she’d done hundreds of times until she did it without thinking, and she pulled back to look at his face, although she kept hold of his arms. “I can feel your spine. Where have you been? Do you need to eat?”

He said nothing. 

“Come on,” she said. “Harry and Ron are going to--well, there'll be time for that later. You look like shit, so whatever we have to talk about can wait until you’ve got something in you.”

Potter was standing outside the tent as they headed up the hill toward camp. Draco saw his whole body stiffen into attention.

“I thought the wards were holding.”

“They are,” Hermione said. “He didn’t get through. I stepped out. He came looking for me.”

Potter’s eyes fixed on Draco. “You’ve got some fucking nerve.”

“Is there anything left from lunch?” Hermione said.

Potter looked between the two of them and didn’t answer.

“Come on,” Hermione said darkly to Draco. “If the pot’s empty, I can make more. It’s plain rice and lentils, so I hope you like a bunch of tasteless mush. We’re getting low on variety. The only upside is there’s plenty.”

“So what now? He’s just--here? Ron’s going to go mental if he comes back and sees Malfoy here,” Potter said.

“I don’t want to leave him like this. Will you find Ron and give him a heads up? It’ll be better coming from you.”

Potter didn’t move.

“Sit,” Hermione said to Draco, pointing at a log. She stepped closer to Potter. “Harry, please.”

Potter wavered. “Are you certain?”

A slight nod.

His face set. “We’re all going to need to discuss this.”

“We will. But look at him.”

“Fine.” Potter sighed. “Ron went to get firewood. I’d better find him before he gets back.”

Hermione grabbed a bowl off another log and peered into the pot over the embers. She nodded to herself. “Looks okay. No sense wasting.” She stirred with a wooden spoon and heaped the bowl.

Draco took it from her, hands numb. His heart was still beating too fast. There were too many emotions all firing at once, and it was all he could do to stay put and resist the urge to bolt.

She frowned. “What?”

He shook his head. He could feel the heat coming through the side of the bowl. When was the last time he'd had something hot?

“We're not going to throw you to the Snatchers. It’s all right.” She sat down next to him, close enough for her knee to touch his. He could relax a little, then. He lifted a spoonful of rice and lentils to his mouth.

It didn’t taste like anything. It didn’t have to. His body instinctively leapt for  _ starch-salt-carbohydrates-calories,  _ and it was all he could do to make himself chew before going for more.

Hermione’s hand flitted over his shoulder and back. Her fingers brushed the front of his shirt, tracing his collarbone. “What happened to you?”

Draco put the back of his hand to his mouth, trying to swallow. “I had to come out here.”

“We thought you’d gone back to the Manor.”

He shook his head. “Not safe.”

“But what do you mean you had to come out here? Did you Apparate? How did you even learn that? Where have you been? Were you captured? It’s obvious someone hasn’t been feeding you. Give me that.” Hermione took the bowl from him, refilled it briskly, scraping the bottom of the pot rather harder than she needed to, and thrust it back in his hands, heaped almost to spilling. “That’s about all that was in there for the moment. I really can make more. Sorry. You can eat. But I want to know where you’ve been.”

His mind felt too slow to keep up with her questions. He didn’t understand what wasn’t clear to her. “I’ve been here,” he said, gesturing to the forest. “Snape took me. After it all happened.”

“What, that night?”

He nodded.

Her mouth opened. “That’s not possible.”

A rush of anxiety. “It is. You have to believe me. I’ll show you.” He grabbed for his pack, dumped items out, scattering wrappers and the remnants of his food, the battered plastic bottle of drowned acorns, until he found the map. He pointed his wand at it and cast the spell. A thin black line appeared, outlining his progress. “This is where Snape brought me.”

Her finger traced the map. “Draco, it’s almost the end of July.”

This time, it was his turn to be stunned. It had certainly felt like forever. He’d tried not to think too hard about exactly how long. The days turned into one long march. He hadn’t realized it was six weeks.

“You should be dead,” she said. Her hand was on him again, cupping the sharp angle of his shoulder blade. Her fingers curled against him. It was difficult for Draco to get a read on whether the touch was meant as affection or if it was just habit, mixed with her disbelief at his presence. Hermione kept leaping to new questions, and Draco was having trouble responding as fast as she wanted.

“Where were you trying to go? Why not stay there, where Snape brought you? Are there others out there? Did someone chase you?”

“No one knows I’m here,” he said. “I had to keep moving. And then I came to find you--”

“When?” she demanded.

He looked at her, not understanding. He thought she’d ask why. This question didn’t make sense.

“How did you get here? To our camp,” she said. “It’s important.”

“I’ve been walking for weeks,” he said, still confused. 

Her face fell. “We just happened to be here. It was just coincidence.”

“I almost walked right past you. I hadn’t planned to come this way,” he said. “There are campgrounds further north. I was going to go there, but I changed my mind.”

She stilled. “Why?”

“I don’t know. I felt different. I had my route planned. Look.” He showed her the map again, casting a different charm. A green line appeared, carving its way deeper in the forest, over on the far side of the creek. “I woke up, and that way didn’t seem so good anymore. I didn’t even bother to redo the route. I just changed course a little bit. Going this way seemed--shorter, maybe, or easier. It felt better. It was an easier walking day than I’ve had in a long time, and then I saw you.”

“What did you think finding me would do?” She hugged herself. “You have to understand, you’ve shown up here out of nowhere, and I wasn’t prepared to see you, and now I’m going to have to deal with Harry and Ron--”

“You want me gone,” Draco said, feeling sick.

“No. No, I don’t. This is all more complicated than I’d expected it was going to be,” she said. “Listen. Let’s try to take things one step at a time. Do you need more to eat, right now? Or do you want to go in the tent and get some sleep? It might be easiest if I can talk to Harry and Ron privately.”

As soon as Hermione mentioned sleep, Draco realized how worn out he felt. The bowls of food were heavy and reassuring in his belly, but his head hurt, and the prospect of closing his eyes somewhere dark and quiet sounded incredible.

“It’s okay if I go lie down?”

“Yeah,” she said, sounding relieved. “I think that’s best.”

She took him into the tent and pointed toward a zippered side compartment. “I sleep in there, for privacy. You can use my cot for the moment. It’ll keep you out of the way in case any of us needs to come in and get something.”

Before she could rezip the flap and shut him out of sight, Draco thought of something and flung out a hand to stop her.

“Don’t let Weasley know I’m here. You’ll stall him? Keep him away from here for a little while, until I can hide out somewhere else?”

She frowned. “It’s fine. Go rest.”

“Please, Granger, he can’t know. He’ll kill me.”

“No one’s going to hurt you. Let me go and talk to them.”

When she exited the tent, Hermione realized her hands were shaking. She picked up the pack Draco had discarded by the fire, noting the ground-in dirt on the straps. She replaced some clothes he’d tossed out. She opened and sniffed at the bitter mess of waterlogged acorns, then turned her face away in distaste. Then she noticed a familiar object, an old schoolbook, opened it, and paged through it gently, inclining her head one way and the other.

She pricked up when the boys approached.

“Where is he?” Ron growled.

“Inside. Resting,” she said. She shook her head when Ron reached for the tent flap. “Don’t. He needs to sleep. It’s better for us to talk first, anyway.”

“You said your spell was for someday,” Ron said. “Not two bloody days later.”

“You didn’t tell us it would lead him straight here,” Harry said.

“It didn’t,” Hermione said. “Well, it sort of did, but only because he was already nearly at our camp.”

Ron folded his arms. “Is that what he told you? He just happened to be wandering past? Because I guarantee that git will lie to his own mum to save himself. It’s not even a good lie. He Apparated himself in, or got some henchman to take him. There could be people lying in wait just outside the wards, waiting for his signal.”

Hermione shook her head. “He didn’t just get here. Harry, didn’t you tell Ron how he looks?”

“We came straight back here as soon as I could tell him what happened. Ron didn’t want to leave you alone with Malfoy. We didn’t take much time to talk.” Harry and Ron exchanged looks. “He is in rough shape, mate. Hermione's right about that. He looks hollowed out. He really does look like he’s been out on his own.”

“And look.” Hermione held out the book. “Look at the notes.”

Ron gave her a skeptical look and opened the book. Harry came nearer to see. Then Ron’s eyebrows went up, and both boys turned serious.

At another time, some of the notes Draco had scrawled in the margins would have been funny. There were moments even so that made Hermione’s lip twitch, just for a moment, before the awfulness of it sunk in again. 

“For Merlin’s sake, wrap a shirt around your hands first,” read the note by stinging nettles. “Soak nettles in hot water, or crush well between smooth rocks if there isn’t a bottle free.”

“Fucking disgusting, but you’ll feel full. Drink LOTS of water,” by cattail root.

“This stuff is bloody evil,” next to the entry on pine bark.

“Not terrible,” next to acorns, followed by, “Sure, for a day or two. Try a week of this shit.” Then, an arrow pointing to the comment and, “Truth. If I get out of here, won’t touch these for 1,000 Galleons.”

“Bloody hell,” said Ron.

“He’s written through the whole book,” Harry said, flipping the pages.

“I’d guess it made him feel like he was talking to someone,” Hermione said quietly. “You could go mad, out there so long alone.”

“What’s to say he hasn’t?” Harry said.

“What if he was captured, first?” Ron said. “If someone’s out looking for him, and they find us.” He trailed off. “Isn’t it dangerous, having him here?”

“He can’t go any further on his own,” Hermione said. “Who else is going to help him? If we send him away, you might as well admit it’s a death sentence.”

Ron hesitated. “I mean. Maybe, if one of us kept hold of his wand so he couldn’t try anything?”

“What about the Horcruxes?” Harry said. “Are you saying we should let him know about that, too? It seems like a huge risk. He’s worked against us all this time, and if he hears about something that the other side could use to their advantage--I’m just trying to think like him.”

Her voice came out flat and hard. “That’s not how he thinks. He wasn't in DA as a spy. He isn’t here as one, either.”

“But we don’t know why he is here,” Ron said.

“Don’t we? He didn’t find me by accident. I checked. He was near us, but he was planning to go another way. He only changed course after I finished the spell. If he didn’t want to find me, and with good intent, the magic wouldn’t have worked. He would have passed right by us, and none of us would have known.”

“We can’t stop searching for ways to fight Riddle because Malfoy showed up,” Harry said.

“What if he wants to be part of it?” Hermione lifted her chin. “He’s got as much reason as anyone to hate and fear You-Know-Who, right? At this point? It makes more sense that him being here is proof he deserted than that he’s looking for a way to the Death Eaters.”

“That’s a big leap to take,” said Ron.

“We don’t need to decide it right now,” Harry said. “Why don’t we agree he can stay the night, at least? I have to agree with Hermione that he doesn’t look like he can afford to skip any more meals. We’ll keep a close eye on him, see how things stand, and make a decision from there.”

When she heard stirring inside the tent, Hermione went in to check on Draco. Strange, to see him in her bed. Strange for him, too, clearly, by the mix of want and apprehension in his face. 

“Better? Did you sleep some?” she asked.

“Yes. I needed that,” he said.

“You up to come out for a bit? The others are here, and they’ll have questions, too.”

Draco sat up. “Is there another way out?”

“You’re going to have to talk to them sooner or later.”

“You don’t understand. I mean it, Weasley will kill me, after what I did.”

Hermione crossed an arm over her middle. “I thought you were back. You’re going to run, now?” She shook her head. “You’re not in danger here. None of us will hurt you. I told you that. If you want to leave, that’s your own choice. I can’t be the one to throw myself in your way anymore, so do what you want to do.”

Draco slowed down. One hand gripped the metal bar of the bedframe tight. “What did you tell them?”

Hermione exhaled in a short laugh. “I don’t know much to tell myself. I showed them your map.” She waited a moment. He was still sitting on the cot. “I do want you here. I haven’t wrapped my head around how you’ve lasted so long out here, but I’m glad you did. But I’m not the only person here who has a say.”

“Yes. I know that.” He took a breath, settling his shoulders and relaxing his hands. When he looked at her again, he’d smoothed the anxiety out of his face. “Okay. They’re just outside, you said?”

The boys drew closer together when Hermione and Draco emerged from the tent. Hermione snuck a glance at Draco. Unlike the other two boys, his face didn’t show anything but cool, distanced self-assurance. She wanted to stick an elbow in his side. He wasn’t dealing with Lucius, or a professor, and if Harry and Ron thought Draco looked too poised to trust it would fall back on her to defend him.

To all of their surprise, though, Draco strode right up to Ron.

“You hate me worse than anyone, I’d expect,” Draco said. “There's nothing I can say, but I am sorry. I didn't mean for it to happen. I didn't want him to die.”

Ron looked startled, but not enough to lose his voice. “Seems like you tried hard enough,” he said. “You don't get off because Snape did your dirty work.”

Draco frowned, confused. “It wasn't Snape. It was the werewolf.”

Ron frowned back. “Who are you talking about?”

“Your brother,” Draco said, bewildered. “I thought he was your brother. The man protecting Ginny.”

“He's not dead,” Ron said.

“He is. I saw him. The werewolf attacked him--he was on the floor. There was blood. He wasn't moving.”

“Oh, he got bit, all right. Lupin says it's a unique case. We're all still waiting to see exactly how he'll be, but he made it through the first full moon and didn't turn.”

“He's married. We were all at the wedding,” Hermione said.

Draco sat down heavily on one of the logs around the firepit. “He's alive? This isn't--you’re not--”

“Joking?” Ron said. “I don't think it's funny to imagine my brother dead.”

Draco put his face in his hands for a long moment. “Good. That's good.”

Ron squinted. “I didn't realize it'd matter to you.” He looked at Harry. Then he opened his mouth and paused, considering. “Ginny said you saved her.”

“I did what?”

“You didn’t tell me that,” Harry said to Ron.

“The darkness powder. Was that you?” said Ron.

“Yes.”

“Bellatrix would have got her, but she couldn't see. Ginny got out of range. Not that she's sorry to see the back of you. She was more wondering why you bothered, if you were planning on murder, anyway. It's just something you did by accident.”

“Was it by accident?” Hermione said. “Why choose that moment to throw it?”

Draco looked between them. “I didn’t know DA knew. I didn’t know you’d all be there to fight. I should have, but I wasn’t thinking about that. I thought my parents would come and get me to the Tower to--do what I was supposed to, and get me out. They don’t hurt kids. I didn’t know it would be Bellatrix and Greyback.”

“You said that,” Harry murmured. “I remember that.”

“I wanted them to go away. Get away.” Draco turned to Hermione, not Ron, grey eyes pleading with her to understand. “I didn’t want to see him die.”

“It’s still not doing much,” Ron grumbled. He looked at Hermione, too, then back at Draco. “If I see Bill again, I’ll tell him you asked after him. We’ll see what he has to say about it.”

“You should stay with us tonight,” Harry said. “Hermione and Ron and I need to talk more, but there’s no sense in sending you anywhere this late.”

Dinner was quiet and strained. Harry and Ron made more of the rice and lentils. Hermione tore open a bag of dried peaches for dessert and passed around a bottle of vitamins. They all sat separate from each other, staring into the fire while they ate. After, Ron switched on the radio for the Potterwatch broadcast.

Hermione was worried, briefly, that Draco wouldn’t realize how important it was to them to keep silent during Potterwatch, so as not to miss a word. She thought he might say something and anger Harry and Ron, but he leaned forward as intently as the three of them, steepling his fingers in front of his mouth.

“With increasing numbers of former Ministry officials not accounted for, reports tell us You-Know-Who has been frustrated in numerous capture or assassination attempts. Those who are reported to have evaded capture or torture through these means include Amos and Eileen Diggory, Oliver Lufkin, Isobel and Morag MacDougal, and Septima Vector, whom I still say was altogether stricter at Arithmancy than was required to provide a thorough education.” The voice paused, and there was the faintest mumble of another voice nearby. “Just a fun fact. Adds a bit of color. The listeners appreciate a touch of human interest.”

“Is that Lee Jordan?” Draco asked.

“The Potterwatch broadcaster is called River,” Harry said.

“Ah.” Draco folded his hands in front of his face again.

In the Potterwatch studio, it seemed that whatever scolding the non-amplified voice was delivering had reached its conclusion.

“Right, yes, back to it then,” River’s voice returned. “For those interested, we’re also able to announce a new correspondent at Potterwatch, Rider. This point of contact has been able to engage so-far undetected means of obscuring the whereabouts of certain Undesirables. While Rider is not able to speak directly to our listeners, for the sake of maintaining secrecy, this person has advised us that they may be available for advice or assistance on strategies for secrecy. Contact an Order member or Potterwatch correspondent, and expect further instructions by steed.”

Ron looked up sharply.

The voice on the radio continued, “One troubling aspect of the Order’s efforts to date is the absence of Harry Potter. Last reported seen at the Burrow, Potter has been missing for a few weeks now. Here to brief us on the situation is our associate, Romulus.”

“Thank you, River,” came Lupin’s tired voice. “To be clear, missing isn’t exactly the right word to use in this case. We’d known that Harry Potter would need to take cover to minimize threat to himself and others. What the Order failed to account for was the quickness of thought and unquestionable talent of his associates, which led to a decision to depart without notifying an Order member of their intended location, and to cast powerful enough warding charms to escape detection from ally as well as enemy forces.”

“Romulus, to be clear, it still sounds like you’re saying no one knows where he is.”

“That is, somewhat embarrassingly, the case,” Lupin admitted. “We are investigating possible methods to re-establish contact. If Potter were merely not accounted for, for example, there might be avenues for potential correspondence. He is either traveling by unknown means or hiding in an unknown location out of reach of traditional means of magical communication.”

“Any chance he’s listening to Potterwatch?”

Lupin let out a light laugh, although Hermione heard a forced edge to it. “Flattering idea, isn’t it? By all means, Harry, if you’re tuning in, we’d love to hear word, or better yet, meet in person. It’s not the house you’d likely expect, and not the person you’d trust, but the only theory we have for a suitable place.”

Hermione didn’t recognize anyone on the (thankfully) short list of people newly reported missing. They listened to the next broadcast’s password, and the radio crackled into silence.

“The hell was that?” said Harry.

“They don’t usually do that?” said Draco.

“No, that’s never happened before,” Hermione said. “He tried to send you a message. Did any of that mean anything to you?”

Harry ran a hand through his already wild hair, sticking it in even more directions. “He didn’t say anything to me at the Burrow about anything like this.”

“Well, we clearly need to try and figure it out. They need you. That’s obvious. Hopefully they can give us more this way. It sounded like they know you’re listening. I think Romulus was irritated with Lee for being too obvious.”

“At least someone’s bothering to be obvious,” Harry muttered.

“That was Lupin, right?” Draco said. “He sounded weird.”

Hermione nodded. “So insistent.  _ Not  _ the house you’d expect,  _ not  _ the person. Too crisp.”

_ "Theory _ sounded weird, too,” Draco said. 

“Maybe it means something,” Hermione said.

“What about Rider?” asked Ron.

Hermione frowned, trying to follow. “You want to try to contact Rider to get in touch with the Order? Why not just reach out to Lupin, then?”

“They said Rider sends instructions by steed,” Ron’s throat sounded raw. “When we heard Rabbit, the first time. Her name--it’s the Patronus. D’you think, maybe? Horses have riders. Do you think it could be her?”

Ginny. Hermione’s heart bobbed. Best to be cautious. “They said she was missing.”

“They didn’t, though,” Harry said. “Remember? Not accounted for.”

“What’s the difference?” Draco asked.

“We’re not exactly sure, but they mean different things,” Hermione said. “Maybe Ginny is accounted for now. Maybe it means people who might work for the Order, but don’t have an assignment? If that’s true, then her becoming Rider the correspondent would change her status. We need to figure out what it means, that much is clear.”

“We need to figure out a lot of things,” Harry said. He looked at his watch. “Do you want to get some sleep? Ron and I wanted to stay up a bit and talk over some things.”

“Not a bad idea,” Hermione said. 

Harry’s voice was testing. “We’ve only got the three cots, so Malfoy will have to take the floor.” 

Draco was already getting to his feet. “That’s fine. Granger, you’ll show me where?”

He followed her into the tent, leaving Harry and Ron to talk alone.

Hermione set him up on the other side of her compartment, as far away from Harry and Ron’s cots as he could get. They’d all probably sleep better if the boys could pretend they had space from each other.

“Well. Good night,” she said awkwardly, and zipped herself into her side. The moonlight and firelight were strong enough for her to see the shadow of Draco in his sleeping bag through the zipper panel. He curled on his side, and so did Hermione, but before she could fall asleep she was jerked awake by his gasp. There was a rustling on Draco’s side of the tent, then quiet. For a little while.

The third time Hermione snapped awake from Draco’s sudden movement or startled noise, she unzipped the tent flap and held it open a few inches.

“Can’t sleep?”

“I’m getting settled,” he said. 

“Are you okay?”

“No.”

Hermione bit the inside of her cheek, considering. “Do you want me to come be next to you for a minute?”

Draco lifted his head. “God, yes.”

She wriggled out of the sleeping bag, dragged it into the main compartment of the tent, dropped it next to his, and zipped herself back inside. She faced him, resting her cheek on one curled hand.

He reached for the other, in the darkness. She let him take it. “I’m sorry,” he said.

“I know.”

“I should have told you. Maybe it all would have gone differently.”

She sighed. “You should try to get some sleep. There’ll be lots of time to talk tomorrow.”

Draco put his head down, but his hand squeezed against hers fast, like a little pulse. Hermione didn’t think he was aware he was doing it. “Will you at least promise you’ll listen to my side first?” he whispered.

“What do you mean?”

“Don’t send me away without letting me explain. Or not explain, I don’t mean explain like a justification, but I need to try to make you understand--” He was starting to babble, voice pitching higher in his rush to get the words out.

Hermione propped herself up. “Hey. Hey, settle down. Draco, Harry was there, hiding, at the Astronomy Tower. He heard the things you said. He saw that you couldn’t do it. When I say we’ll talk tomorrow, I mean it. There are things we all need to figure out, but we’ll get something sorted. I promise. Now honestly, Harry and Ron really will wake me for a shift, so you need to get some sleep, and let me rest.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Golden Trio spent so much time isolated in canon. I'm thinking it could be really fun to see how the dynamic changes with Draco in the mix to complicate things.


	43. The Silver Dolphin

There was scrambled egg and mushroom, the next morning. 

“Powdered egg,” Weasley explained, catching the look of surprise on Draco’s face. “I don’t know where Hermione learned about all this stuff, but it’s not bad.”

Draco didn’t even have to ask for a second helping. He and Weasley both cleaned their plates first, and Hermione pushed the pan halfway between them before either one of them could ask. Weasley took the spatula first, but there was a generous quantity in the pan. 

Potter waved the pan away when Weasley offered, so after what Draco gauged to be a reasonable length of time, he took a third scoop, and ate until he was full. 

Afterward, the other guys announced that it was time to recast the wards.

“We were thinking we’d go,” Potter said. “Ron, er, didn’t want to leave me back here, if you know what I mean, so it’d be either you or him, so.”

“Yes, of course,” Hermione said. “That’s the most sensible way to do it. Draco and I have catching up to do, too. Just think over what we talked about, right?”

“You sure you’re all right back here?” said Weasley.

“Talk it over with Harry,” Hermione said. “Harry, tell him what you told me?”

Potter shifted from foot to foot, then rolled his eyes with a groan. “Come on, Ron,” he said. “It might be a long walk.”

Draco watched them go. 

“Up late, last night?”

“Busy day, yesterday,” she said with a wry smile. “They've got a lot to think about. Some space should do them good, I'd expect.”

He tipped his head. “Not you, though.”

“It hardly makes sense for us to split off, does it? We’ve missed out on plenty as it is.”

“Why are the three of you out in the middle of nowhere, anyway?”

“It’s not the middle of nowhere,” she huffed. “Perfectly popular Muggle camping ground. I used to come here every summer. When the attacks at the Ministry started, we didn’t want to put anyone at risk by staying at their house. I thought this would be our best option to get away from Wizarding eyes.”

Draco rolled his own. “Bit of bad news on that point.”

“Right, we heard that through Potterwatch by day two. The Snatchers don’t come out this way much. Draws too much attention from Muggles. There was a bit of a close call, once, but no one’s found us. We were taking turns keeping watch at nights until we felt certain the warding would hold. We only just stopped staying up all night a few days ago. And now you’re here, so I’m guessing Harry and Ron will want to pick it back up again.”

“You don’t seem as surprised to see me as they are.”

Another one-sided smile. “I’m hoping I still know you better than they do.” She slung a sack over one shoulder. “We might as well walk and talk, if you’re up for it. Those were the last of the mushrooms, so if you want something other than rice and beans for the rest of the day, we’d better go find it. I wish we were near a deeper stretch of the river. There’s not much in the way of fish here.”

Draco grimaced at the prospect of foraging again, but Granger was already making her way toward a path at the edge of the woods.

“Aren’t you worried about Snatchers?” he said.

“Yes, but considering our mission is to find bits of You-Know-Who’s soul hidden in potentially any object at all, and proceed to destroy something virtually indestructible using tools that are both rare and often dangerous in their own right, the slim odds that I’ll come across a few thugs on this exact walk are looking pretty good to me. I’ll take my chances for a decent dinner.”

“Are you deliberately being as much of a Gryffindor as you can right now, or do you honestly not care if people try to kill you?”

“I want to make sure you know what you're getting into, if you stay with us. And I want to be sure you don't have the wrong idea about me.”

“In what way?”

“It occurred to me,” she said, tramping down the path, “that there's a few reasons why you might want to find me. Maybe you want to let yourself off the hook, and you think I'll bail you out, or tell you it's not your fault. I've done things like that before.”

“I know what I’ve done,” Draco said. “And what I haven’t. I know how most people must see me by now. I’ve had more than enough time to think about that, but Granger, I’m not a monster, either. I don’t want to be.”

“I can't save you this time.”

“You never could,” he said. “I'm not asking you to.”

“Then why did you want to come back?”

There was the question. The answer was there was nowhere else he could imagine going, but he didn't want her to misunderstand and think she was his last resort. True as that also was.

“I'm not good at hope,” he said. “I don't see the things you see. I want to live in the kind of world you do, but I can't find it by myself. I thought if I could be close to you, even if you didn't forgive me, I could see it better.”

“I'm not a beacon. I'm a person.”

“I know. You're a good person.”

“I want to be,” said Hermione. “If you think I’m going to have answers about how to know what you’re doing is right, I’ll disappoint you. We’re all doing bad things, these days. Everyone’s hurting people. I’m just trying to figure out how to be someone I can live with when all of this is over.”

“Yeah, that's about the shape of it.” Draco pointed at a cluster of broad leaves, interspersed with tiny, star-shaped flowers. “Did you want any of that?”

Hermione frowned. “What is it?”

“Wild garlic. Can’t say I’m a fan, although given you’re planning on cooking it, that changes matters.”

Hermione crouched, poking a few fingers into the soil at the base of one of the plants. “I forgot about spices when I was packing. I have salt, but that’s it. Even if we do just eat rice and beans, this would help the flavor a lot.”

“You can eat the leaves as well. They’re better if you find a plant that isn’t flowering yet.”

She nodded and grasped a plant at the base, turning her hand gently as she tugged to loosen the bulb from the soil. “You're lying about the hope, you know.”

“I do?”

“You said 'even if’ I don't forgive you. You want me to. You didn't come find me just so you could throw yourself at my feet and try to live a better life. You don't really have the humility for that, Draco.”

He shifted. There was something probing in the way she was talking to him, but it was hard to follow what it was that she could want.

She looked over at him. “Are you planning to try to win me over, bit by bit?”

Draco scowled. “I think I know better than that.”

“Good. If I can't save you, you can't earn me, either.”

“Understood.”

She dropped the garlic plant in her satchel. “Do you have feelings for me?” she said abruptly.

“Would it matter?”

“I’m not sure,” she said. “I don't know how to be sure of you anymore. I don't know how to trust you.”

“I’d say you can, but I haven’t given you much reason to believe me,” he said. “I want you to. I’m here, whatever that counts for.”

“It’s something,” she said thoughtfully.

They walked on a little way. Hermione added handfuls of fiddlehead ferns and chestnuts to her sack. She kept drumming her fingers on the strap. Draco wondered, but didn’t want to press her. Not when things were still cagey like this.

“Can I tell you something?” she said as they walked through a patch of new-growth trees, on their way back from the stream.

“Really?” Draco said. “Please. Yes.”

“I had to do it,” she said. “My parents. It wasn't safe, any other way. I told you about this, before.”

Draco lowered his head. “I'm sorry.”

“You should be!” Her hands squeezed in fists. “If Dumbledore was alive, maybe things would have gone differently. Maybe I wouldn't have had to do it.” She looked in the opposite direction, her shoulders rigid and still. Draco could tell she was trying not to cry, probably was crying and didn't want him to see. 

He swallowed. “Have Pot--Harry, and, ah, Ron, been helpful?”

“They don't know.”

“What, neither of them?”

She looked over. She was crying, or at least the tears were leaking out. She still looked angry with him, too. “Of course neither of them, you bloody idiot. Harry can't know, and Ron might blurt it out at the wrong moment.”

“When did you do it?”

“Right after Dumbledore.” Her voice wavered. “We had to move quickly, the three of us. I had to be ready, and there was no telling what would happen to me, or when I’d see them again. I had to do it right away.”

“Merlin.” Weeks, then. Months at this point. As much time as he’d carried the knowledge that his parents’ lives, not only his own, hung in the balance of what he did. “And you didn’t tell anyone.”

“I wanted to tell _you."_

Draco grabbed her and pulled her into his chest. It was probably the wrong thing to do, but there wasn’t anything else he could do.

And, just maybe, it wasn’t the wrong thing. She was crying more, and saying things into his shirt that sounded a lot like “stupid bastard” and “sodding asshole,” but the way she leaned into him like that. The way her hands grabbed the front of his shirt, and pressed his ribs, and reached around him so her fingers fit into the spaces in his spine. She shifted the way she was standing, creeping so close that her feet were between his, and relaxed against his chest, and when Draco bent his head he knew from muscle memory that if she would only lift her chin toward him, her lips would be right--

There. Except that they weren’t, of course. For one wild moment, he’d thought she was shifting her weight to rise to him, but she pulled back, out of his arms.

Draco touched the tip of his tongue to his lips. “So this is probably, or rather, undeniably, the worst timing imaginable,” he said. “But I need to know where things stand. With us.”

Hermione blanched. “We haven't even told you you can stay.”

“I can. I'll have to. I realized that this morning. You can't risk letting me leave, now that I know where you are. That's how the others will see it, I expect.” He met her eyes, steady. “It's a matter of whether, to you, I'm a guest or a prisoner, or--wanted. That's what I'd like to know.”

“You're certainly dramatic enough.”

“This matters.”

“What if I'm not sure yet? You only just got here. I might not have an answer for you after so little time.”

“I know you, Granger. Whether you still care about me at all or not, you can't tell me you haven't thought over the problem before now.”

“Problem?”

He made a self-deprecating grimace. “The problem of Draco Malfoy. What you’d do if you ever had to face me again.”

She didn’t pull further away. Draco thought, maybe, she even leaned in, just a little bit. “Who's to say I'd have any qualms about jinxing you to hell and back?”

Draco gave her a careful look. “Can I show you something?”

“Okay?”

He grabbed her hand, and she squeezed his back. Maybe just habit kicking in, but he’d felt sure she would, and the joy of being right about that made it easier to find the right feel of the memory and let the magic come coursing through his wand. The silver dolphin wreathed around them. Draco heard her intake of breath.

“You can cast one.”

He nodded. “There was a Boggart. I fought it off with this.”

“Why not use Riddikulus?”

“I couldn’t think of anything to make it funny.” He looked over at her, checking her expression. “It was of you.”

She gave him a sharp look. “Is that supposed to be a joke?”

“No. I thought for a moment that I’d found you. You were--it was so angry.” His breath caught a little, remembering. “It had your face, and your voice, and you were telling me how much you hated me. I still thought she was you, somehow, until she hurt me. That’s when I knew.” He had to stop.

“Knew what?”

“Hermione, you're the only person I know who, somehow, hasn’t asked me to change.” He waved his hand. “I’m not talking about changing my mind about stupid things I thought. You made space for me. You let me be the way I needed to be, and you didn’t make me feel like you loved one version of me less. I was lying on the ground in the forest, with that--thing--telling me I deserved what I got, and something in my head just opened. I could see myself, suddenly, the way you did. And everything fit. You wouldn't torture me, no matter how much you hated me. I knew I was worth more than that, to you. I cast the spell, and this is what came out.” 

He looked up at the dolphin. “This is who I am, I think. The version of myself you saw. I don't know if it's who I've been all along or how much you helped bring that part out, but it's mine, with or without you. I’ve made my choice about where I stand, whatever you end up deciding to think about me. I’m not stupid. I know better than to think I could show up after everything that’s happened and expect you to love me, too. But I wanted to show it to you. So you knew.”

Hermione looked at the dolphin gliding through the sky overhead, and back at Draco's face. “Too?”

“Yes?”

“You spend weeks trying to find your way back to me, and you show me  _ this _ ,” she said. “And you’re seriously going to bury telling me you love me in on the word, ‘too’?”

She put a hand on the back of his neck and surged up on her toes to press her lips against his. She’d never been one for soft, shy kissing, and this was no exception. Firm and warm and sweet, she pressed into him, filled his perception, left him breathless. He kissed her back, barely knowing where he wanted to touch her next--her neck, her waist, the wisps of hair at her temples, her arms circling him. He could taste her, which was the most thrilling, dizzying part of any of it.

“You beautiful,” she said into his mouth between kisses. _"Stupid_ boy. How could you. Think you could be. Fucking.  _ This _ . And I wouldn’t love you?”

“I'm trying to be practical,” he protested once he had his mouth to himself for a second.

“You're not practical,” she said, equally indignant. _"I'm_ practical. Did you honestly expect to fool me about that?”

He attempted a grin. It was a little shaky, but it was there. “You love me?”

She kissed him again, hard, hands pressing so firmly against his cheeks that it almost hurt. “Too,” she said, eyes fierce.

He nodded. “Definitely too. Too being the operative word.” He wrapped his arms around her again. “I love you so much,” he said, because she deserved to hear it, and because it felt good to be able to say it and know she wanted to hear it from him. He buried his nose in her hair and stifled a cough. “We really should do something about that hair.”

“Really?” she said. “Do you really think it’s a good idea to go there, right now?”

He tried to run his fingers through the underside, pulled his hand back, and rubbed his fingers together, feeling the collected grime. “Honestly, this needs attention. I recognize you’re camping out in the middle of the woods, but what have the three of you been doing for hygiene?”

She pulled away from him, anger and hurt in her face. “I don’t know why you think this is funny right now, Draco, but you are on really, really thin ice.”

Draco brushed his hands down the front of his legs in exasperation. “I’m trying to be sincere! You have  _ thick hair, _ Granger. A lot of it. Has either one of those two dolts been helping you?”

“Oh,” she said. She raised a tentative hand to touch her hair and swallowed. “No. I’ve been going down to the stream by myself, but the water’s so shallow, and we only brought bar soap, and there’s all these rocks that are covered with slime--”

“Do you have a bucket?” Draco said. 

By the time Harry and Ron returned to camp, Draco was sitting on one of the logs by the fire, a large bucket between his knees. Hermione sat on the other side of it, facing away from Draco, her head tipped back into the water. Draco’s hands were sudsy up past his wrists, and he frowned in concentration as he raked his fingers through the knots.

“Ow,” Hermione said, half-lifting her head.

“Sorry, love, I know,” he murmured. “I need to get these out.” He looked up, catching a glimpse of Harry and Ron. “You both should be ashamed of yourselves.”

“You want to try that again, Malfoy?” Harry said.

Draco picked up a bottle of conditioner, squirted a dollop into his hand, and smoothed it over the ends of her hair, working his fingers into the snarls. “It’s going to take forever to get all of this untangled. Have you seen her scalp? I’m amazed she hasn’t been complaining. How did neither of you bother to bring shampoo?”

Ron rolled his eyes. “We’re in the woods, Malfoy. Although clearly that didn’t stop you from bringing enough beauty supplies to open a salon.”

Draco’s hands stilled on Hermione’s head. She tilted back to look at him.

He fixed his eyes on her hair. “Snape promised to protect me. I didn’t realize he meant he’d leave me out here. Had I known, I would have prepared differently.”

“Snape,” Harry said. “Bloody snake.”

“I’m inclined to agree,” Draco said shortly. “Close your eyes, Granger, I want to do another rinse.” 

When Draco lifted a cup of water to pour over Hermione’s hair, Ron paled.

“Bloody hell, he really has it.”

Draco froze. He’d rolled his sleeves up without thinking. It hadn’t even occurred to him that the other boys hadn’t seen his Mark before.

“Yeah,” Harry said.

Ron whistled. 

Hermione leaned back in the water, shook her head to clear out the rest of the suds, and sat up, dripping. She wrung her hair out and twisted it into a messy knot. “So let’s talk about it.”

“Do we have to?” Draco said.

She sat on the log next to him. “What do you expect anyone to think if you won’t speak up for yourself?”

Draco took a deep breath and nodded. “I’m not proud of it,” he said. “I didn’t want it. I wish I didn’t have it.”

“Kind of easy to say now, you’ve got to admit,” Ron said. “Now that it didn’t work out too well for you. Why get it at all, then?”

“I didn’t have a choice.”

“You told Dumbledore you didn’t have a choice, but you were still the one who opened the Cabinet,” Harry said.

“It wasn’t like that.” Draco twisted his hands together. He was hungry again, or at least his insides were gnawing at him. “There were things I did, last year, that I did because I felt like I had to. All year, I knew if I messed up badly enough, I’d get hurt, or killed, or my parents would. It didn’t feel like I had a real choice, so I did what I had to. The Mark wasn’t like that. They made me. I couldn’t have fought them off. It was one of the worst nights of my life.”

“There are two ways of getting the Mark,” Hermione said quietly when Draco didn't continue. “For some Death Eaters, it’s a status symbol, a sign they’ve made it into the inner circle. For others, it’s more like a punishment. It’s a brand, you see. If You-Know-Who is angry, but can’t afford to lose the person, he makes it so they’ll be hated and rejected anywhere else. He can make it more painful, too.”

Draco didn’t want to look the other boys in the eye. If he did, he wouldn’t be able to continue, and Granger was right that they’d never trust him unless they knew. She had his hand in hers again, and she squeezed it to reassure him. (“You’re going to have to tell this story a lot,” she’d said, before the others came back. “Start with them. They’ll listen, for my sake if nothing else.”)

“Afterward, it was bad. I hated it. I hated myself. If Granger hadn’t taken care of me, I don’t know how things would have gone.”

“You knew the whole time?” Harry said.

Hermione rubbed her collarbone. “There wasn’t a way to tell you. It was hard enough trying to convince you to give him a chance as it was.”

“Considering what happened, can you blame us?” Ron said.

“I’m not blaming anyone,” Hermione snapped. “I’m saying don’t you two jump to blame me for not running to tell you Draco had the Dark Mark, and don’t blame him for having a scar a monster gave him.”

“Okay, okay, let’s all settle down,” Harry said. “So. Erm. We've agreed that you can stay.”

Draco and Hermione looked at each other. He couldn’t help a small, “this is what I was saying” nudge of his shoulder, and she bit her lip to hide a smile.

“That's...good,” Draco said. “You have my gratitude.”

“There'll be rules, of course,” Ron said. “You can't go sneaking off by yourself. One of us has to see you at all times. I still vote one of us should keep hold of his wand.”

“We all need to be able to defend ourselves,” Harry said. “It’s more dangerous if someone needs to look out for him all the time.”

“Who said anything about looking out for him?” Ron grumbled.

“He's kidding,” Harry said, glaring at Ron.

“Seems likely,” Draco said.

Ron squared his shoulders. “I think you're a right prick and a bastard,” he said. “No one's going to convince me to like you. Not even Hermione. Sorry, Hermione. But yeah, okay. We don't leave ours behind. If you're really in with us now, and you don't slither off to save your skin, Harry and I will have your back, too.”

Draco nodded slowly. “I can live with that,” he said. “I doubt I'll hear better. I'd offer you a hand, but now may not be the best time.” He lifted his soapy hands as indication. 

“Better not,” Ron said. “That's what started the whole bloody mess six years ago, isn't it? Maybe steer clear of handshakes and see if things go any better.”

Draco stared for a minute, then sat back, swiping absently at his forehead in astonishment. “Sweet Morgana, Weasley, is that meant to be a joke?” Draco said. “That’s awful.”

Ron’s lips quirked. “Got what, three square meals in you and you’re already lording about? The world’s gone to shit, Malfoy. My humor’s the last thing you need to worry about. Also, you can’t expect me to take your opinion seriously with a big glob of lather on your face.” He swiped a line on his own forehead, down to the eyebrow.

Draco wiped his forehead with his forearm.

Hermione slid down from the log and resumed her spot in front of the bucket. She tipped her head back and closed her eyes. “I am going to have something nice,” she announced. “You all can feud as much as you like once I’m done.” She reached overhead without opening her eyes, finding Draco’s wrist and guiding his hand back to her scalp.

He dug his fingers into her wet curls, feeling the change in weight as she relaxed into his hands. “No argument from me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! It's been a weird week, so it's definitely a relief to post a chapter with this much love in it after everything else that went down in the woods. Even if I believe it's also fair for Hermione to be angry, and need to work through some of that first. I want there to be room for all the emotions.
> 
> Also: Definitely got Google ads for powdered egg for two weeks after writing this (I also researched foraging tours of the Forest of Dean, read various outdoor survival sites, and now the search engines think I am VASTLY more outdoorsy than has ever been true). Did you know about this stuff? You've probably eaten it without realizing, if you've had scrambled egg from a big buffet container at a hotel breakfast, or in college.


	44. Campfire Night

Hermione assumed, later, that what began to happen between the four of them over the next week or so was because of her and Draco's efforts. This wasn't entirely true.

Harry, of course, had had his own reasons to mull Draco's case over in his mind, prior to the day the Slytherin arrived at the campsite. He’d been so used to the Malfoy he knew--the bully, always poised with a sneer and an insult on his lips. It hadn’t occurred to him to imagine that Malfoy ever felt helpless or in over his head. Everything that had happened on the night of the Astronomy Tower had shaken Harry, and Draco’s trembling hand and stricken face was no small part of it.

When Malfoy returned, Harry resolved to watch him. He trusted Hermione, and it was a shock to see Malfoy thin and bedraggled, but he also wanted to be sure Malfoy wasn't hiding tricks Hermione might not see. Stealth came easily to Harry. He’d always needed it. At Privet Drive, both in the house and at school, it did best when he could keep out of the way. Hogwarts taught him to value his ability to slip away for other reasons. It was good, being the Chosen One, recognized and praised, but it was often overwhelming, as well. All in all, with or without the Invisibility Cloak, Harry found it easy to go unnoticed, when he wished to.

So in the days following the decision to accept Malfoy into the camp, Harry made himself scarce sometimes, to observe what he could unnoticed and think things over for himself. 

Once, as he soft-footed his way back from the stream, he saw Hermione come up behind Draco and lay a casual hand on his back, saw the way Draco jumped. Harry was too far to hear what Hermione said, but he saw the way one hand flew to her chest, the other reaching for Draco's shoulder, fingers gentle, and he could imagine her voice ( _ Oh God, I'm sorry, I didn't think _ ). Draco shook his head, affecting ease ( _ It's nothing _ ), and curled his fingers against her waist to pull her closer to him.

Another afternoon, Harry had taken a rest in the tent, and when he woke up, there was a narrow gap in the tent panels that let him see them. They were sitting on a log together, talking in low voices, heads nearly touching. Malfoy inclined his head to Hermione--a question--and she nodded and put a hand on his knee, and then they were kissing. Harry had never pictured Malfoy kissing someone. If they were at Hogwarts, Harry would have turned away immediately, embarrassed, but circumstances being what they were, he didn’t, and it was strange to imagine Malfoy as the kind of person who'd want to tuck someone up in his arms like that. And Hermione as--well, a  _ girl, _ he supposed, with her chin tilted up for kisses and a smile shining over her face when they pulled apart.

Harry was curious about what the two of them would discuss in the evenings, when they stayed up by the fire and Harry and Ron caught some sleep before a late watch. He didn’t have much luck listening in. Hermione and Draco kept their voices down, and the crackling of the fire covered their conversation. Harry only caught an exchange once, when he was half-awake, and it didn’t make much sense.

“That’s it then. You want to pick next category?” Hermione said.

“I beg your pardon. This is perfectly valid.”

_ “Magical _ creatures, we said.”

“Granger, if you’re unable to recognize a  _ magical  _ toad when you encounter one, I hardly see how that’s my problem.”

“Then I may as well just do a housecat!”

“And who’s to say I wouldn’t have accepted it?”

“Fine.” A small pop of magic. “There.”

“Well, I’m not going to accept it now, not after that egregious hesitation.”

“Nice try. That was a clarification, not a hesitation. Come on, what else have you got?” A pause. “See,  _ this  _ is a hesitation.”

“It’s a Thestral, and you just can’t see it,” Malfoy said loftily, and then let out a yelp of surprise that turned into full-on laughter, words coming in bursts between breaths. “I object! Unsportsmanlike conduct--the audacity--visibility isn’t in the rules--”

“You cheat, you lose the round and you know it,” Hermione said, laughing too. “Don’t you try to pull that ‘cunning’ nonsense on me.”

“Let go of me, you intractable minx.” Another, more thoughtful pause. “Perhaps not that far, though.”

Harry rolled over and shut his eyes tight.

Ron managed to steer clear of Draco and Hermione when they were doing things like kissing, but he couldn't always escape Malfoy altogether. Hermione still took her turns to cast warding or walk in the woods with Harry, which meant sometimes Ron and Malfoy stayed behind together.

Ron didn't trust the silence, the first time.

“Aren't you going to say anything?” he grumbled.

Malfoy flicked his eyes up without turning Ron’s direction, in that stuck-up way of his. “No.” He flipped a page of his book.

“Why not? Cat got your tongue?”

Malfoy rested a hand on the page. “Did you have something in mind?”

“I don't have anything to say to you.”

“Suits me.”

Ron glared. Malfoy resumed reading, even stretching out his legs to make it clear he was making himself comfortable.

“I was going to hang out, out here, until the others get back,” Ron said pointedly.

Malfoy didn't look up. “No one's stopping you, Weasley.”

So Ron got the chess pieces out to work on. He cast the spells a bit louder than he needed to, seeing if Malfoy would make a fuss about noise. Malfoy ignored him.

It...wasn't bad, oddly enough. Harry and Hermione got a soft look in their eyes when they talked to him. He knew they were thinking about Ginny, and he really didn't want to ruminate aloud about what could have happened to her. He was hoping she really was working for the Order (ideally on something quiet and out of trouble, although he had a grim sense that this was far too much to hope for from his sister). If he let on at all that he was thinking about her, or even got quiet enough to make them suspect it, Harry and Hermione would feel a need to try to pull him into a conversation or cheer him up. Ron hadn’t known how to ask for them to simply sit with him and let him worry without forcing him to be able to put things into words. It was beyond weird for the person to unwittingly supply this to be that tosser Malfoy, but apparently the entire world was backwards now.

Ron even took a shift of the night watch, of sorts, with Malfoy. There’d been a report on Potterwatch of attempted arson on Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes. Thankfully, no one had been hurt. Yet. Ron was getting more and more anxious to be in contact with anyone in his family, though. It was difficult not to snap at Harry and Hermione when they circled through the same pros and cons for an Apparation attempt, ultimately deciding again to stay at the campsite for now. If Ron heard Hermione say, “just another few days, then,” one more time, he was going to break something. Malfoy, Ron suspected, wouldn’t give a rat’s arse if he spent an evening glowering into the fire. And Malfoy didn’t. He had his own thoughts to keep him occupied, after all. They sat up for a bit in silence, and when Ron got to his feet at last, Malfoy jetted a stream of water through his wand to douse the fire. 

It seemed awkward not to say anything at all in the tent, so Ron said, “Night,” just to signal that whatever shared bit of the evening was over, and Malfoy said it back from his side of the tent, and they went to sleep.

The next time Harry and Hermione were taking their turn away from camp and Ron took out his project, Malfoy didn’t take long to find a seat nearby and open a book. For a little while.

Malfoy crooked one finger lazily between the pages and shaded his eyes. “What are you working on, anyway?” he said, sounding bored.

“A chess set.”

Silence again for a few minutes. Ron tried to ignore the fact that Malfoy had not returned to his reading.

“Giving you some trouble, isn't it?” came the arrogant drawl.

“Sod off, Malfoy.”

Malfoy leaned forward. “What exactly are you trying to do?”

“Mind my own damn business.”

Malfoy smirked and adjusted into a more comfortable position.

After another minute, Ron said, “Are you going to keep staring at me all bloody day?”

Malfoy lifted one shoulder. “I've read this one already. If you don't want to have a civil conversation, fine with me. It's not rude of me to have eyes, though. I'll watch until I figure things out for myself. Or until you get too dull to be worth the trouble.”

Ron glared at Malfoy, then sighed. Talking with this prick was irritating, but he didn't fancy being stared at like a zoo exhibit, either. “I have the pieces done. I'm trying to do the enchantments to get them ready for game play.” 

“They're not taking.”

“I'll get it.”

“Can I try one?”

Ron was surprised. Malfoy didn't sound nearly as sneering as he always had. There was something almost wistful in his tone. Still, though. “Why?”

“Charms were never your strong suit, were they? Maybe let someone with better marks have a go.” Okay, there it was. But Malfoy was looking at the chess pieces, not gauging whether his words had struck home. “It looks interesting.”

Ron was sick of recasting the spell anyway, and it could be funny to see Malfoy trip on his own arrogance, so he put down his wand. “You know what? Fine. Be my guest.”

Malfoy set his book down and came over. He picked up a queen with two fingers and aimed his wand with a casual flick, casting the spell to animate the piece. 

He frowned. “Oh, weird.”

“Yeah.”

“What kind of wood did you use for these?”

“Vine.”

Malfoy glanced at him. “So they'd be pliable.”

“Right, exactly.”

Malfoy made a considering face. “Not an entirely idiotic concept, but--”

“But these are way too pliable, yeah. I figured that much out pretty quick.”

“Unhand me!” squeaked the queen in Malfoy's hand. “I'll have you beheaded! Guards!”

“The wood absorbs too much of the magic,” Ron explained. “They're supposed to understand instructions so they'll move to the right place, but they come out sort of sentient.”

“How dare you, you knave!” shrieked the queen.

Malfoy, surprisingly, set the queen down on the stump and bowed his head formally. “My deepest apologies, your Majesty. I meant no disrespect.” He snapped his fingers at Ron. “Give me a knight. She's not going to settle until she has a protector.”

“Don't you snap at me, Malfoy,” Ron said. “I’ll handle it myself.”

Malfoy raised an eyebrow. “I'm not chivalrous enough to charm a knight, Weasley? Fine. Hand over the other queen and the kings, then. Royalty’s more suited to my skills, I’d imagine. You can take the bishops, too.”

By the time Hermione and Harry returned, Ron and Malfoy had finished the pieces and were in the early stages of the most nontraditional game of Wizard Chess Ron had ever played. All the pieces had turned out to be capable of argument, so the first phase was a matter of both boys offering whatever mixture of rousing speeches, wheedling, or sly promises they thought it would take to convince a particular piece to play on their side. 

Malfoy had both queens, which would have been a formidable advantage, except that all the knights sided with Ron, and Malfoy had only one of the bishops (“It's corrupt,” Ron complained. “I'm not sure how that's even possible for something that's been aware for about thirty minutes,” Malfoy replied). The kings and rooks split traditionally, and now only the pawns were swiveling back and forth on the board, trying to decide where to go.

“What are you doing?” Hermione said.

“Playing chess,” Malfoy said, oozing  _ isn’t-it-obvious _ .

“This isn’t chess,” Ron said.

“New chess, then,” Malfoy offered. “Sentient chess. Insurgent chess--Insurgency? Is it better to drop chess out of the name altogether?”

Ron addressed the pawns. “See, this wanker is going to sit around trying to make up a stupid name for what you’re doing. I’m here to make sure you conquer this board.”

The pawns conferred, and a large cluster broke away to line themselves neatly in Ron’s rows of pieces.

“Oh, come on,” Malfoy said. “Doesn’t creativity account for anything? You want a thinker who goes deeper than yes or no.”

A few pawns trickled his way.

“I’m making some tea,” Harry said, “And then I’m watching this. It looks like it’s going to be worth it. Who else wants some?”

And for the next hour and a half, the four of them drank tea and watched Ron’s pieces trounce Malfoy’s in three different games, one of which only lasted six minutes (to be fair, that round, the pieces had reanimated with a particularly strong inclination toward battle, and Malfoy had only managed to secure five to play with). And despite the clashing of miniature figures on the board, none of the four of them was thinking about war at all.

Of course, worthwhile as all of this was, it still might not have come to anything more than the occasional passing reminder that they were all, in fact, still also students who had grown up more or less alongside each other, and not just people who war had thrown into closer connection than anticipated, were it not for Draco and Hermione’s efforts, and a couple of nights when they were all relaxed and things seemed to fall in place on their own. Nights like the evening of Harry’s seventeenth birthday, the campfire night.

When Hermione had packed, she hadn’t expected to be out for weeks, but she’d also been aware that it was hard to know what she really could expect. To that end, she’d hidden away a pack of Lotus biscuits, a bag of marshmallows, and a few Cadbury bars so they’d have something to celebrate with, if they were still in the Forest of Dean then. She was especially grateful for them now, noting that Harry had pushed around more of the rice on his plate than he’d actually eaten.

After they all found sticks, Draco sat right next to Hermione and planted his hand on the log on Hermione’s far side, so she'd lean back against his arm.

Ron made an annoyed noise. “Really?”

“He’s not doing it to dig at you,” Harry said. “They're always like that.”

“Like what?” Hermione said, indignant.

“They're worse than you and Lavender,” Harry continued. Ron's lip twitched.

“I'm not sure what you're talking about, but I feel I should object, based on your face,” Draco said. 

“Ron and Lavender were obnoxious,” Hermione said. “They were attached at the tongue for about two months.”

Ron grinned. “Where’s your hand, Hermione?”

It was on Draco’s thigh. Hermione blushed and folded her hands primly in her lap.

“What’d you say that for?” Draco complained. “Granger, you’re not going to listen to them, are you? I’m not afraid of Potter and Weasley.” He hugged her closer and nuzzled into her neck to prove it.

Hermione smiled, but she felt tight. It felt, suddenly, foreboding that she and Draco were sitting together on one side of the fire, and Harry and Ron were together on the other. She was with her family right now, inasmuch as she currently had one, and since Draco had returned she’d found herself balancing time carefully between sides. What if this continued? What if, wild thought, things stayed good with her and Draco, and it became a further and further distance for her to reach across to Harry and Ron until they tightened into a pair of best friends, instead of a trio? Or worse, what if it had less to do with the fact that the newcomer was Draco Malfoy, and the real problem was that he was a newcomer at all? The three of them had gone through so much together. Maybe the idea that she could become close to anyone who wasn’t one of them was enough to cause a rift. 

“We should do something different,” she said.

“Different how?” said Ron.

“It’s Harry’s birthday,” Hermione said. “It’s a new year, for him. So let’s do something new. Let’s not talk about the same old stories the three of us know by heart. Tell us something no one here knows about you. We can all go.”

“You and Harry know everything about me,” Ron said.

“I’m not telling these tossers my secrets,” said Draco.

“It doesn’t need to be a secret,” Hermione said, exasperated. “Just something we don’t know. There’s got to be something.”

“I’ll go,” Harry said.

Hermione gave him a grateful smile.

Harry adjusted his glasses. “I don’t know if it’s really secret. Maybe. It’s not like I wouldn’t have told Ron, or whoever, I just never did. But here goes, then. I almost got Sorted into Slytherin.”

Hermione and Ron actually squawked in surprise. Draco lifted his chin and shook his head.

“I’m not seeing it. Not with the way you bluster and swagger around.”

All three of the others snickered.

“Do you even listen to yourself when you talk, Malfoy?” Ron said.

Draco grimaced. “Poor choice of words, maybe. I can be subtle, though. You’re always just charging around.”

Harry lifted a smoking marshmallow from the fire and blew on it. “That’s because when I sneak, you don’t even notice me, for all your cunning,” he said airily. “Or were you also on a first-name basis with the three-headed dog, first year? Because I don’t remember you being with me and Ron and Hermione when we found it. Who got Buckbeak untied and snuck him right under Fudge’s nose?”

“That hippogriff mauled me,” Draco said.

“It was a scratch and you know it,” said Harry. “The point is, I can be cunning. The Hat saw that, clear enough. Ambitious, too. The Hat thought I’d make a great Slytherin.”

“Why didn’t you?” Hermione said.

“Well. That’s the thing, isn’t it?” Harry said, suddenly looking a bit chagrined. “I’d only just met Malfoy, right? And he was an absolute git--I mean, you were,” he said to Draco.

“Just tell the bloody story, Potter.”

“And then your surname starts with M, so you’d gone right before me, and when the Hat was trying to sell me on Slytherin, I just kept thinking, hell, I don’t want to bunk with that prat, not Slytherin. So the Hat put me in Gryffindor.”

Hermione’s mouth dropped open.

Draco burst out laughing. “You  _ chose  _ your  _ House  _ based on not liking me for the last twenty minutes beforehand? Merlin’s balls, Potter, I take it back. That might be the most singularly petty Slytherin maneuver I’ve ever heard of. You might have done all right, after all.”

“He’s done a bit more than all right as it is,” Ron said.

“Now I’m not sure why it didn’t put you in Slytherin, just for that reasoning.”

“It was the principle of the thing,” Harry said. “I wanted to be with people I felt like I could believe in.”

“Oh, okay, right,” Draco said. “That would do it.”

“I almost got put in Ravenclaw,” Hermione said.

“Well, that’s no surprise,” Ron said.

“And I knew that already, so it doesn’t count,” Draco said.

“You did?” said Harry.

“You think we don’t talk, Potter? Of course I know things about her.”

“Ron, you got anything?” Harry said.

Ron ran a hand through his hair. “Yeah, I’m trying to think back. It’d have to be a baby story. I don’t know. Did I tell you my parents thought I was a prodigy, for a while?”

“No,” Harry said.

“That’s amazing,” said Hermione.

Ron grinned sheepishly. “Well, not that amazing. I didn’t exactly turn out top of the class, did I? But I was a pretty powerful little kid. I had my sparks party when I was three.”

Draco whistled. “Are you serious, Weasley?”

“What’s a sparks party?” said Hermione.

Harry shook his head. “Not a clue.”

Hermione felt Draco lean back in surprise.

“Potter,  _ you  _ don’t know what this is? A sparks party. Any little Wizarding kid has one. Maybe not Granger, but that’s only because Muggle parents wouldn’t know any better.”

“Your parents throw a party for you when you first do accidental magic,” Ron said. “Most of the time it’s when you’re five or six. It’s like an extra birthday, but even bigger. Everyone comes out to celebrate that you’re a proper witch or wizard. You play loads of games, doing different kinds of baby magic. Some of it’s meant to help you learn control so you don’t hurt anyone before you go off to Hogwarts, but it doesn’t feel like lessons. It’s fun.”

“Mine lasted four days,” said Draco. 

“Mine was a weekend,” Ron said, “although probably a few people stayed on a bit longer.”

Harry shrugged. “I was raised by Muggles, too. My aunt and uncle.”

“But they’d  _ know,” _ Draco protested. “They’d have been told who you were. They must have done a party, even if they didn’t call it a sparks party.”

Harry’s jaw tightened. “They didn’t.”

Ron sat forward a bit, boring his eyes into Draco.

“Why’s it called a sparks party?” Hermione said, to break the silence. 

“Most kids make sparks, at first,” Ron said. “It’s one of the most common early magics, though not everyone does that.”

“I painted the peacocks,” Draco said. “They’re all white, so I just went like that--” He streaked a hand through the air. “Like finger painting. My father got home from--time away--and I’d made them all piebald, all different colors.”

“That’s adorable,” said Hermione.

“I vanished a glass.” Harry sounded pensive. “Freed a snake. I could feel how much it wanted to get away.”

“Bloody hell, mate, you were an odd one, weren’t you?” said Ron. “Anyway, it’s really rare to do magic that early. Even four is really young, and I was barely three and a half. I could vanish. My parents were worried that I’d figured out something incredibly strong, like some kind of elemental form of Apparation. They kept asking where I’d gone. They had to notify Dumbledore and the Department of Underage Magic in case I needed to be enrolled in special programming. They were proud, mind you, no doubt of that, but there’s a lot of other things that come with having a child who’s gifted that strong.”

“So what happened?” said Hermione.

“They eventually figured out I’d basically had to tap my magic that early, because of the twins. Fred and George were five and a half, then. They’d only just had their sparks party a few months before, and as soon as they could do any kind of magic, they were using it to play pranks on me. I had to be able to get them back, or hide myself away when I didn’t want them to bother me. I could turn invisible, I could lock and unlock doors with magic, I could do sparks and water both, but I learned all of it because of Fred and George. Until my parents figured that part out, though, they used to bring me out at parties to show off what I could do.”

“You must have loved that,” Hermione said.

Ron’s eyes crinkled at the memory. “It’s the main thing I remember, really, from being that little. Some of the pranks, too, but getting fussed over was nice, while it lasted.”

Draco leaned his cheek against Hermione’s temple. “If we survive all of this, when it’s all over, I’m going to throw you the belated sparks party of the century,” he murmured.

It felt less awkward now, getting cuddled in front of the boys. It felt luxurious and rare to have Draco be relaxed like this, and Harry and Ron weren’t even saying anything, so she nestled her head into the crook of his neck and stretched her feet out in front of the fire.

“If you do throw her a party,” Harry said, evidently having heard, “Are we invited?”

Hermione could feel Draco go still, considering the possible angles of the question.

“I suppose so,” he said coolly. “It doesn’t seem as though I’m going to shake loose of either of you, as long as Granger’s around, and I’d never hear the end of it from her if I wasn’t on somewhat cordial terms with you.”

“A heartfelt sentiment from a Malfoy if ever I heard one,” drawled Ron, reaching for another biscuit.

“Says the ginger who’s vowed never to like me,” Draco said. “My parents most likely count me dead, Weasley. You’re going to go after my family now and still call me the bastard?”

Hermione looked across at Ron, who paused and then nodded.

“Sorry,” he said. “That was too far. I’ll lay off.”

Draco nodded, too, acknowledging the apology.

Hermione was trying to think of something to say next, but Draco cut in again before she could come up with a secret to share.

“It wasn’t like I never wanted to be on good terms with you,” he said. “With Potter, at least.”

“Yeah, we all know that,” said Harry with a short laugh. 

“I mean I still did, later, in a way,” Draco said. “You lot were in my face all the time, weren’t you? No, it didn’t make me like you any better, or suddenly want to slum it with the Weasleys, or associate with Granger. Anyone could see what you three meant to each other, though. You put each other first without question, without having to think about it for a second. No one would have done that for me. Crabbe and Goyle did what I told them to, but they’re not loyal like that. My other friends and I...we had good times and times we’d fall out, for a while. It wasn’t steady. Even at home.” His fingers clutched Hermione’s waist, but he was too far in to stop now. “My parents took care of everything for me, of course, but they were busy a lot, when I was a kid. I didn’t always know when they were going to be around. You all were there for each other, whatever happened. Maybe I didn’t want to be friends with you, but I wanted that.”

Hermione put an arm around him. “We’re here for each other now.”

“That’s the most ridiculous part of all of it,” Draco said. “I think I might actually believe that. I still don’t plan on being best mates with you two, but I know that wherever we go from here, it’ll get worse for me. I’m making the most of it, while I can.”

“It might not even be all that bad,” Harry said. “People in the Order would hear you out, at least.”

“We’ll see.”

“My secret’s similar to Draco’s, in a way,” Hermione said. “I was an odd kid. Probably most Muggle-born witches and wizards are. I learned my powers from  _ Matilda. _ It’s a book, about a little girl who can make things move with her mind. I loved it. I taught myself to do it, too. My parents go to church, but they’re not old-school, hell and demons religious, which is probably a good thing, considering they walked into my room and I had all my toys spinning circles in the air around me. They took me to see all kinds of people. Doctors, psychiatrists. I had my brain scanned every possible way. They had the vicar come talk to me and ask if I ever heard God speaking to me, which didn’t make sense to me at all. I thought, I’d learned all sorts of other things from books already, this was just one more. Professor McGonagall actually came to pay us a visit herself, when I was about six or seven.”

“Does she usually do that, make calls in Muggle villages?” Draco said.

“Don’t look so shocked. We don’t all live in villages, either. I grew up in a suburb. I don’t know if she visits routinely. I expect some Muggleborns hide their magic as long as they can. I didn’t, and I had parents who were relentless about looking for answers. Professor McGonagall had to intervene or my parents would start drawing too much attention, I think. My point is, I felt out of place for a long time. I didn’t even feel like I could belong at Hogwarts until Harry and Ron and I became friends. That’s when it stopped feeling as much like a dream that was going to end any minute.” 

“Until this year?” Draco said.

Hermione gave a crooked smile. “Yeah, basically. Who knows, now?”

“We do,” Harry said. “We know better than anyone that we’ve got a chance. Really, Malfoy, even the fact that you’re here. You can’t be the only one who’s pulling away from the Death Eaters.”

“People may not be keen to see you at first,” Ron said. “Once they understand it means You-Know-Who is starting to lose followers, they might take it as a good sign that you’re with us.”

“And from there, all we need to do is come up with a plan to defeat You-Know-Who and save the world,” Hermione said.

“Right, ‘all,’” Harry said. “At least we don’t have to do it tonight.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Switching POVs at this point was somewhat nerve-wracking for me, but I really felt like I needed to get a sense of how Draco and Hermione look together now without being inside either of their heads. I hope it wasn't too jarring, and gave you a new perspective on what's changed or changing for the boys as well.
> 
> I was especially happy to get a chance to tease at another detail that's bothered me before in HP canon, which is the question of underage magic. If magic comes out involuntarily in moments of heightened emotion, but underage magic has severe legal penalties attached, there has to be a cultural mechanism in place to teach control, right?


	45. Out of the Woods

Hermione thought Draco was starting to look a bit better. He wasn’t getting achy and exhausted after meals anymore, didn’t have to spend as much time resting in the day. His skin didn’t have that flaky, ashen look to it anymore. He was still too thin, but so much more alert, more  _ there. _

And the more he did really seem to be there, Hermione found, the more she felt an impulse to check and feel sure of him. Those first few days, it was grotesque and laughable to think he’d stagger away from the food and security their campsite provided. The stronger he was beginning to look, the more Hermione wanted to reach out and touch him, to satisfy herself that he wasn’t going to slip away again. The more she did, and felt him lean into her touch, and felt her brain prick with excitement when they picked through Potterwatch news together, and let herself relax enough to lull almost into dozing against his shoulder when it was late but they were dawdling about heading into the tent, the more she found she wanted.

They’d stopped doing regular night watches again--it was too lonely and too much work to shuffle rotations and spend hours staring into the dark wood--but Hermione and Draco had stayed up anyway after Harry and Ron had gone to bed.

They crept back into the tent sometime after midnight, keeping footsteps soft and wincing at the sound of the zipper pulling the tent flap closed. Neither Harry nor Ron stirred on their side of the tent.

It was dark, but their eyes had already adjusted to no more light than what the stars and embers provided. They found their way to the other side of the tent, where Draco’s sleeping bag was still laid just on the other side of Hermione’s compartment. She unzipped the flap and turned back to kiss Draco goodnight. He was waiting for her to do that, and his hand felt good on the side of her neck, and the kiss made her want another.

His hair was soft, and cool from the night air. Hermione liked the territory of his back, the higher planes of shoulder blades sloping into a valley the size of her spread hand, the knotted muscle from carrying a pack for miles, and the stepping-stone vertebrae. And the kissing, all the while. So much of him was taut and almost humming with energy, but against his mouth Hermione could feel where he let himself relax. Kissing, at least this kind of kissing, was ease and warmth. And neither of them had to hold the other one up. Hermione could let herself relax, too, without worrying that it would cause a collapse. 

She ran a hand down his side, brushed her fingers against the skin under the edge of his shirt. She knew that dip in the muscle over his hip, too. She pulled away to see his face.

He closed a hand around the arm touching him. “Don’t go yet.”

“Come with me,” she whispered back.

His head darted up a bit. “Yeah. Yes. I want that.”

“I don’t know if--I don’t want to get your hopes up,” she floundered. 

“We’ll figure it out. You’re going to wake them up. Can we talk in there?”

Hermione unzipped the panel between the compartments, and Draco lifted his sleeping bag gingerly and carried it over to her side.

Hermione put hers on the floor, too. “Is it okay if we cuddle a bit? And stuff? See what feels okay?”

“Yes. Just come here already.”

She lay down next to him, and he kissed her again, and that was good. He still smelled the same, even out here. She cast a Lumos and tucked her wand mostly under her pillow, leaving just the tip out for a little bit of light.

She liked his hand like that, too, gripping her waist and sloping up over her ribcage. The heel of his hand grazed the side of her breast, and she rolled a little toward his hand before her brain had time to make a more calculated decision, and that felt good, too. When he put his hand under her shirt, she cast a silencing charm, and he smiled and nudged her onto her back. He put one of his legs between hers and pushed her shirt up to bare her belly. 

“I want this off.”

She put her arms over her head to help him. “You too, then.”

In the dim gleam of wandlight, Hermione could see the new scars criss-crossing the paleness of his chest. When she touched them, they felt surprisingly smooth, long healed-over. Of course they would, she realized. It had been months since Sectumsempra. She just hadn’t seen them yet.

His back straightened as her fingers continued to explore the path of scars.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” he whispered.

“No,” Hermione agreed. She put her hand flat against his chest. “Sorry. I can stop.”

“It’s fine. I don’t want to think about other things, right now.”

“Gods, no,” she said. She kissed a spot near the base of his throat, where a thread of a vein sometimes showed. “I like this spot.”

He made a little sound and tilted his chin up.

She kissed it again. “You could stand to have a freckle there or something, to help me find it. Rude of you not to, really.”

He touched her chest. “Don’t come complaining to me. You’ve hoarded the lot.”

“Prat.”

He smiled. “Been awhile since I’ve heard that.”

It was a little strange, for the next minute or so. There was more formality,  _ Could I do this? _ and  _ Maybe we could try _ and  _ How’s that?  _ Hermione had been more afraid that something would feel wrong, though, than it turned out anything actually felt anything other than familiar and a relief and  _ good.  _ He didn’t feel tense anymore, more lithe and smooth. She wanted to press herself against him. He did, too, and they found a rhythm. Their hands were roaming freely now, under or over what clothes remained, and it seemed stupid to keep pajama bottoms on at this point.

Hermione tugged his down an inch. “Do you want to?”

“Fucking hell, Granger.” 

She wriggled out of hers, and he nudged her legs apart.

“Come here,” he growled in her ear, and put his mouth on her neck, and they picked up where they’d left off. Hermione closed her eyes. Part of her wanted to scratch her nails down his back, but she couldn’t bring herself to do anything that would hurt, even a good kind of hurt, so she wrapped one leg around him instead to pull him deeper.

She wanted his hands free after a while, so they rolled over to let her be on top of him. She steered one of his hands down so she could grind against his fingers, and he didn’t need to be told what to do with the other one, so she leaned forward to kiss him and let all the points of contact interplay. He was using his tongue in the same rhythm as his dick, so there was a muffling effect to her moans anyway, but enough sound still escaped that she was grateful for the silencing charm when she came.

The feeling of her crying out into him was all he could take, too, because he broke the kiss as soon as she’d finished and leaned back, eyes shut tight.

“Fuck, Hermione,  _ shit.” _

She folded herself back over him, burying her face in the crook of his neck. She could feel his chest rising and falling in little gasps. One hand, then the other found her again, gentler, holding her against him. They stayed there until they wanted to find wands and do cleaning charms. Then they curled up next to each other and kissed a little longer.

The space between kisses got longer. They dressed, slowly, and dropped back into place. Hermione yawned.

Draco made a little grumble and burrowed against the sleeping bag. “I suppose I should get back on my side.”

“No, don’t bother at this point. You’ll only wake them up.”

“Yeah?”

“If this is what scandalizes them, I’ll remind them there’s a war on.”

“Fair point.” He put his forehead against hers, eyes closed. “I almost walked right past you. I nearly missed everything.”

“You wouldn’t,” she murmured. “I did a thing. I made a magic. So you’d find me.”

“You couldn’t know that.”

“You promised me.” She put her hand on his chest. “Don’t argue everything with me. If you want to find me, you can. I hoped you would. Maybe I knew you would, sooner or later.”

“How’d you know you wanted to be found?”

“I want you,” she said.

She thought he was going to argue with her again, but the silence he was holding his breath in changed, and he draped an arm across her, and the weight of it made it easier to fall asleep.

Two days of thunderstorms meant cramped daytime quarters, leaks in the tent, and miserable shifts squatting out by the fire pit under a shielding enchantment, trying to cook up a meal in the damp. 

Hermione thought Ron always added way too much water to the pot and let the rice get burst and soggy, but she kept quiet and shoved forkfuls into her mouth. It was easier, sometimes, to try and shut off the part of her brain that paid attention to flavor. She watched the others instead. Ron added too much salt, probably in a last-ditch attempt to counter the too-much water, but ate steadily enough. Draco, Hermione was pleased and not a little amused to notice, was beginning to resume some of his fussier mannerisms around mealtime. He had an appetite, for sure, but he was paying attention to things like posture, and napkins, and neat bites that didn’t make his cheeks bulge out when he was eating. Harry took small bites, too. He also stirred food around on his plate, and chewed the same bite for much longer than it should have taken. As Hermione kept a surreptitious eye on him, his throat bobbed, twice, and he gulped at a glass of water.

Ron whisked plates away as soon as the others set forks down and switched the radio on, listening to the static of the Potterwatch frequency before the password-request signal came through and he could cast the enchantment.

It wasn’t a cheery broadcast. Dean Thomas and the Bones family were reported missing, Seamus Finnigan was not accounted for. Mandy Brocklehurst, a Ravenclaw in their year, had been attacked and was in critical condition at St. Mungo’s.

“The Death Eater-controlled Ministry is now actively seeking information leading to the capture of so-called ‘beings of interest,’ which is to say, Muggleborn witches and wizards,” River said. He sighed. “I mean, I don’t need to tell you that’s bollocks, right? Listeners? For Merlin’s sake, they’re not even going to refer to Muggleborns as ‘persons’ but they want you to believe this is all about routine questioning and cooperation? I don’t know what sort of charnel house they’re running in Ministry HQ these days--”

“River!” Lupin snapped.

“Romulus, if you really want to give these metal-faced arsemongers the benefit of the doubt, be my guest, but I think it’s quite clear where all of this is headed--”

“We don’t know where all of this is headed,” Lupin said, voice clipped. “That is the entire point of this broadcast. To cut past rumors and unfounded speculation, however in keeping with the overall look of things it might seem to be, and deliver your listeners truth they can count on. The truth, as it pertains to Muggleborn members of our community, is yes, you will be safer if you maintain a low profile. Aurors loyal to the Order are hard at work gathering intelligence for various operations, including thwarting suspected Death Eater plans to attack Muggle communities. For that reason, if you are Muggleborn and have a safe place to stay and information to report, we urge you to bring information about at-risk persons to the Order to coordinate further protection, for yourself as well as your loved ones. Death Eaters may intercept certain attempts at ground or magical travel, so be cautious in making evacuation arrangements.”

“All right, fine, action items.” A rap of paper against a table. “So. Next thing then. You want to do our new favorite segment of Potterwatch, watching for Potter? Any word from the Golden Trio?”

“The good news we do have to report is that the Order has gathered information both on Death Eater strategic goals, and some specific plan details. We have several operations in the works that stand a fair chance to weaken You-Know-Who’s ability to achieve certain aims, but Harry’s presence would be instrumental in improving our chances of success. We hope he will account for this in his next decisions on where to seek shelter, and trust not in staying alone, but the true allies of the Order."

“True that. We could all use a bit of a boost these days, so think long and hard about the adoring people who await you,” River’s voice crackled on the radio.

“For Salazar’s sake,” Draco muttered. 

Hermione shushed him, but when he met her eyes, she nodded.

Harry complained of a headache, not long after Potterwatch concluded. He’d been dealing with increased pain in his scar for quite some time, and it wasn’t getting better.

Hermione beckoned Ron and Draco to follow her back behind their woodpile, just out of reach of the illumination of the fire.

“We need to do something about Harry,” she said.

Ron glanced at Draco. “He’s all right. Just tired.”

“You know that’s not true. Have you been watching him at meals?”

Ron folded his arms. “We’re going to talk about this with him here?”

“I do, in fact, have a name,” Draco said.

“We should be able to tell each other things,” Hermione said.

“Brilliant,” Draco said. “Anyone planning on filling me in, then?”

“I’m worried about Harry,” Hermione said. “I’ve been seeing warning signs crop up, and I’m guessing Ron has, too.”

“Warning signs of what? Is Potter going mental?”

“He’s touchy about food, all right?” Ron said. “Don’t you go breathing a word to him about it, either, or I’ll take you for a walk and make sure you remember.”

Draco wrinkled his forehead. “I still don’t have a blasted idea what you mean, and I’ve heard enough threats in the last year, Weasley. If you plan on carrying them through, I’m ready. Otherwise, watch your mouth.”

“Honestly, I don’t know why I bother trying,” Hermione said. “I should have brought you out and explained to you individually. I thought I’d try and save time, but I forgot how boneheaded both of you are.”

“You can’t expect me not to defend myself,” Draco started.

“I don’t want to hear it.” Hermione cast a furtive look back at the tent and lowered her voice. “Draco, Harry didn’t always have enough to eat, growing up. His aunt and uncle wouldn’t always feed him. Or sometimes they made him make one pot of something last all week, as punishment, knowing it would run out. Harry had to decide, as a kid, whether he wanted to go hungry that night or later. Having to eat certain foods, or having the same thing too many times in a row, brings back old feelings.”

Draco looked at Ron, as though for confirmation. Draco’s face knitted into a skeptical sneer, which Hermione knew often masked confusion. She wondered if Ron or Harry would come to learn those expressions. Draco, it seemed, had already picked up how to interpret the tension in Ron’s jaw and the way he wouldn’t meet Draco’s eyes. He was looking between both Ron and Hermione now, aghast.

“He’s Harry Potter,” Draco said. “Everyone worships him. No one says a cross word to the bloody Boy Who Lived. He has everything.”

“Not always, he didn’t,” Hermione said. “So. We need to do something.”

“Like what?” Ron said. “You want to Apparate out for a takeaway? Because a load of bloody ferns and mushrooms or grubs or whatever you’re planning to scrounge up next isn’t cutting it.”

“Right,” Hermione said. “I think it’s time for us to get out of here.”

Ron straightened. “What--really? Why now? You and Harry have been talking nothing but more of this mess.”

“Yes, well.” Hermione glanced at Draco. “Draco and I have been talking lately about Potterwatch. We think we have a theory.”

Ron’s eyebrows lowered. “What kind of theory?”

“The messages, from Lupin, and Lee,” Hermione said. “We’ve all figured it’s code. Draco and I think we’ve figured it out.”

“When they say  _ not the person, _ it’s Nott as in Theodore. Nott, the person,” Draco said.  _ “Nott the place _ would be Nott Manor. The Order’s trying to get you to meet up with Nott.”

“We didn’t want to say anything right away, but tonight’s broadcast seemed clearer than usual,” Hermione said. “He nearly shouted ‘trust not,’ and ‘the adoring’? They’re bending over backwards trying to work Theo’s name in.”

Ron crossed his arms. “Why would the Order send us into a Slytherin den, at a known Death Eater’s home?”

“Nott’s no Death Eater,” Draco said. “No chance. Nott Senior, sure, but he’d be at Malfoy Manor, then. Theo hates his dad. Even if he were inclined to follow the Dark Lord, which I can assure you he isn’t, he’d stay away if only to spite his father.”

“Hermione, this is a serious leap to consider,” Ron said.

“So’s staying here. You’ve been saying all the while that we should go back. We’re going to run out of food eventually. Faster, with Draco here. Lupin sounded urgent.”

“There’s been at least two or three Nott-related puns in every broadcast since I’ve arrived,” Draco said. “Which, frankly, is another point of confidence. This sort of wordplay bullshit over a serious matter is exactly the kind of behavior I’d expect from Theo.”

“How would we even get there?”

“That’s where things get a bit complicated,” Hermione admitted. “Apparating is safer than ground travel, but I’ve never been to Nott Manor, and I’m not sure how well I’d do transporting four without having a clear sense of the destination. Draco’s been, but he can’t Apparate.”

“I’ve been,” Ron said slowly.

Hermione’s insides did a nervous flip. “Do you think you could do it? Could you get us all in one go? I’d like for us to be able to stick together, in case anything goes wrong.”

“So you admit there could be a trap.”

“There’s traps everywhere, Weasley,” Draco said. “Parts of these woods are crawling with Snatchers. Who knows what else. You’ve heard as plain as I have that attacks are increasing. They’ll venture further out here.”

“So what if they did? We’ve got this place Warded to the teeth.”

“I thought you wanted to get out of here,” Hermione said. 

“I do,” Ron said. “I just don’t understand why Lupin would try to send us into enemy territory.”

“There’s a difference between a Slytherin and an enemy, Weasley.”

“You’re one to say so.”

“Ron!” Hermione said. “That’s enough. Are you in or not?”

Ron looked at her. “How sure are you?”

“Draco and I have talked it over every night there’s been a broadcast since he’s arrived. We don’t have a better theory on what Lupin could mean.”

“I said how sure are  _ you?” _

Hermione clenched her teeth. “I don’t make my choices lightly, Ron. I would think you’d know that about me. Or are you not sure of me, anymore?”

Draco folded his arms and raised a haughty chin.

Ron looked at Draco, then back at Hermione. “I trust you,” he said to her.

“It’s settled, then.”

“Without talking to Harry?”

“He’ll listen to us. I can’t imagine he wants to stay here any longer, either.”

Harry was dubious, the next morning, but it was clear enough that he was sick of the campsite, and with the other three in agreement, there wasn’t too much convincing needed. The four of them ate, then packed up. Hermione was jittery. Her hands kept trembling as she worked to tie off sleeping bags in neat rolls and pull stakes out of the tent. The three of them had been out in the woods nearly a month, themselves. She barely dared to let herself dream of things like clean sheets. God, a  _ pizza. _

Hermione was surprised to see Ron clutching the Deluminator, along with his wand, when it was time to go. He saw her notice it, and his cheeks turned red.

“I’ve been, er, listening to it sometimes. At night.”

“It talks to you?” Harry said sharply. “Can it think? We shouldn’t trust it, even if it did belong to Dumbledore.”

Draco’s lip curled.

“No, it doesn't talk to me,” Ron said. “It’s like another radio, sort of. Maybe. I hear people talking about me. Mostly my family. I dunno if it’s really them, or if the Deluminator plays what you’d like to hear. I wanted to keep it with me, to help with the Determination bit. If we really are going to meet with the Order soon, they might have word of my family. I thought if I can hear their voices while we Apparate, it could help. A homing effect, sort of.”

"That's...actually really smart," Hermione said.

"I'm not entirely useless, Hermione," Ron said.

"Just what I wanted to hear before putting my life in someone's hands," Draco muttered.

"Piss off, Malfoy."

"We should all have our wands ready," Harry said. "Everyone face out in a different direction, and be ready to disarm in case there is an ambush. Hermione, do you think you could Apparate us all back here, quickly, if we end up in a tight spot?"

"I think so, yes."

“Okay, everyone hang on tight to Ron, then,” Harry said. “Oh, wait. I nearly forgot.” He poked his wand inside their pack and cast a quick  _ Accio  _ for the Invisibility Cloak. “Crouch down a bit, all of you. Otherwise our feet will stick out.” He threw it over the four of them.

Harry and Draco each took tight hold of one of Ron’s arms. Hermione wrapped an arm around his waist. Draco put his free arm around her waist in turn, holding her firmly.

“To Nott Manor, then,” Ron said. “Here goes.”

There was a loud crack, and a tight squeezing, and the world swirled into darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It still feels strange at this point to be carving out my own parallel plot ideas for what might have been going on during the timeline of the 7th book, but fun at the same time. The story arc so far for Draco has leaned so hard on whether he's accepted by Hermione. Important, to be sure, but at the same time, it's not sustainable for their relationship to force her into this savior role all the time. It's one thing to talk about wanting to change sides, or choose a side. It's another to confront the question of which side, if any, will have you.


	46. Nott Manor

Draco blinked hard. There had been a jolt, and the queasiness in his stomach told him they’d Apparated, but the darkness was pure enough to be almost a tactile sensation.

“Hermione? Are you all right?”

“I’m fine. Ron, Harry?”

“I’m okay,” Potter said. 

“Is it supposed to be like this?” Weasley said. “Did I mess something up?”

“No one seems to be splinched, so I don’t think so,” Hermione said. “What we need is some light.”

“No, wait,” Potter said, just as Hermione said, “Lumos.”

Wandlight illuminated shelves, glinting off rows of bottles. All four of them pointed their wands different directions. There was no sign of anyone else in the room.

“It could have been a trap. We should have been quieter,” Potter said.

“It looks like it wasn’t. But where are we?” Hermione said.

“Nott Manor,” Draco said. “Obviously.”

“That’s where we  _ meant  _ to go,” Hermione said, putting a hand on her hip.

“Exactly. We’re here,” Draco said.

“We can’t be sure,” she said.

“I am,” Draco said. “Weasley, stop fidgeting and feel for yourself.”

Ron took a breath and closed his eyes. He nodded. “Yeah, okay. I don’t know it as well, but it seems right.”

“What are you doing?” Potter said. 

Ron looked around, seeming steadier. “These old estates have centuries of layers of spells and wards. They get a sort of feel to them, after a while. Just close your eyes and sort of...smell, I guess, but in your head? You’d never think we were in the Burrow.”

“It’s why you stop getting lost in Hogwarts by second year,” Draco said. “You can feel which way the staircases are inclined to go.”

“But why are we  _ here?” _ Hermione said. “I think we’re underground. I thought we’d Apparate outside the manor somewhere, or at least on surface level.”

“Let’s find out,” said Potter. He cast his own wand into light, and the rest of them followed.

They were in a generously sized wine cellar. It took them a while, in fact, to find their way around. The shelves were arranged to afford several semi-enclosed spaces and nooks. There was one larger main area, complete with a few chairs and a small table with a pitcher of water, a loaf of bread, a dish of fresh butter with a knife, and a few small jars of olives and fruit preserves.

A spiral staircase led up to a locked door. There was a piece of parchment fastened to the door. Draco recognized the chicken-scratch handwriting before they were close enough to read it.

“That’s Nott,” he said, relieved. They crowded on the small landing to read.

“Welcome to Nott Manor,” the parchment read. “At least, that is, if you’re arriving as a friend, or someone seeking shelter, and not some asshole trying to attack us. But let’s assume you come in peace, and we can all get off on good terms with each other.”

“Oh, for Merlin’s sake, Nott,” Draco muttered.

“Shut it, I’m reading,” Hermione said.

“This cellar is the only part of the manor buildings or grounds that will allow Apparation by any unapproved party,” the parchment continued. “Don’t bother trying to pop in anywhere else. In the unlikely event that you get into trouble in here, you’ll have to choose an alternate destination. Sorry, but it’s an unavoidable safety measure. Rest assured, we’ve individually blocked a fair list of known Death Eaters and sympathizers, so you should be all right. 

We check for new arrivals at reasonable intervals. There’s food and water available, and by all means, please help yourself to a bottle of Nott Sr.’s prized wine collection. It is exquisite, so undoubtedly he meant it to be enjoyed by guests of the estate.”

Draco laughed darkly.

“Do us all a favor and don’t, you know, break bottles and generally trash the place, though,” read the parchment. “House rules, okay? Enjoy yourself, but don’t be a dick about it. See you on the other side. With warmest hospitality, your servant, Theo Nott Jr.”

They tried knocking, then banging on the door, but there was no answer. Neither did an Alohomora.

“You’re being rude,” Draco tutted. “You don’t go barging into other people’s houses. That’s not how I was raised, at any rate.”

“Apparating was your and Hermione’s idea,” Harry said as sparks flew off the lock. “And don’t bloody start on your upbringing with me.”

“If you had a shred of comportment in your body, I wouldn’t have to lecture you on etiquette.”

“I want this door  _ open,” _ Harry said.

“So try being fucking patient.” 

Ron put a hand on Harry’s shoulder. “We don’t want to stay up here, mate,” he said, eyeing the open space below. “The door’s not going to open until someone in there undoes the charm. Down there, we’ll be able to hear if anyone else Apparates in and keep an eye on the door as well.”

The tension in Harry’s posture eased. Ron had that effect on him, Draco noticed. For someone who could ask for a manticore’s head on a platter and probably get it, Potter was surprisingly high-strung. Weasley’s ordinariness, and sort of solidness, seemed to keep him grounded. He followed Weasley back downstairs. 

They all took another walk through the cellar, noting some of the more elusive spots.

“Right,” Harry said, sounding calmer. “If anyone else Apparates in, Ron, you take that spot, and Hermione, you and Malfoy can take that one. I can go there, and then one of us should have a good chance of seeing who it is before any of us are spotted. I hate to say it, but if anything looks like trouble, you’re probably best off casting a Stunning spell as soon as you get a clear shot, even if they haven’t spotted you. It’s not duel etiquette, but I’d rather keep us all in one piece.”

“What happens in the meantime, then?” said Hermione. “We just wait?”

“And drink, I suppose,” Draco said. He strolled over to a nearby rack of bottles. “Not much else to do. Granger, do you have a preference? Bordeaux? Malbec?”

“Surprise me,” she said drily.

Draco pulled a bottle from the rack and read the label. Then he sauntered to a sideboard to set out wine glasses. 

Harry dropped into a chair. “You’re not going to ask what Ron and I want?”

“You’ll get what I pour you, Potter. If you’re that lucky.” He poured himself a sip from the bottle, nodded, and filled four glasses.

Ron started setting out plates and rummaged in a drawer for a bread knife.

“I don’t like being cooped up in here much more than Harry does,” Hermione said. “Why aren’t they answering when people knock? I’m not sure how useful a safe house is if you’re trapped in a cellar, with no way to know when someone will come for you. Who knows how long a ‘reasonable interval’ even is?”

Ron poked the loaf. “The cut side hasn’t even dried out yet. They’re checking pretty often, I’d say.”

“I wonder how they know who to block,” said Harry. “Don’t the Death Eaters always wear masks?”

“Perks of growing up in a house sympathetic to the Dark Lord,” Draco said, handing a glass of wine to Hermione. “You hear some names.”

“Hell of a perk,” said Ron.

“They’re limited.” Draco sniffed at his own glass. “But then, you’d know something about limits, growing up in--the Shanty, was it?”

Hermione took a long sip from her wine. “I’d suggest you enjoy this while you've got it,” she said. “If anything goes wrong--either because of any other newcomers, or if Nott can’t be trusted after all--I’m taking us all straight back to the woods.”

With that sobering thought in mind, all of them retreated into silence. They ate what was set out, and waited, and knocked at the door again, and made an unsuccessful effort to Apparate to the other side of the door, or the outside of the house, and continued to wait.

“What’s taking them so bloody long?” Draco grumbled after a few hours.

“It must be another safety measure,” Hermione said. “I wonder if they’re thinking of Polyjuice, and giving it time for the potion to wear off in case anyone would try to disguise themselves.”

“What if they had more, like Crouch?” Ron said.

“You’d have to hope they didn’t,” Hermione said. “Or, honestly, by now you could have already burned through a few doses, unless you’re an exceptionally gifted potioneer. Enough time, and you’re more likely than not to exhaust someone’s supply.”

If that was Nott’s intention, he was evidently taking some pains to be thorough. There wasn’t a timekeeping device in the cellar, but by their rumbling stomachs and the endless-seeming stretch of boredom, they’d been locked underground for most of the day before they heard a voice call through from the other side of the door.

“Hello in there!” 

All four of them were on their feet immediately. 

“Stay close, everyone,” Harry said. “I’ll go with Ron. Malfoy, you stay close by Hermione.” 

They made their way up the spiral staircase, Harry in front followed closely by Ron, with Draco and Hermione coming along behind. The four of them crowded together on the small landing in front of the locked door.

“Everyone all right?” the voice said. “Anyone sick? Hurt?”

“Would have been nice if you’d asked when we arrived, instead of hours later!” Hermione shouted. “We’re fine! More or less,” she added, with a glance at Draco.

“Okay, good, glad to hear it. This is Nott, by the way, as you may have guessed.”

“Are you going to open the bloody door or not?” Ron bellowed.

“Yes, of course. I don’t intend to shout at a piece of wood all evening. Just a few quick things first, and we’ll get you set up more comfortably. Who’s all in there?”

The four of them looked at each other.

“Dudley Dursley,” Harry called, dropping his voice to a croak to disguise it.

“Stan Shunpike,” Ron said.

“Penelope Clearwater.”

“Going to stop you there, I’m afraid,” Nott said. “Shunpike’s known to be captured by the Death Eaters, and Clearwater’s out of the country. We’ve detected that there are four of you. I’ll need you all to send your wands through the keyhole, if you’d be so kind.”

Hermione gripped hers tighter. “Gracious, but we’ll have to decline.”

“Not a request, I’m afraid. You’ll have them back in just a moment.”

“What if we refuse?” said Harry.

“You’re in the locked and Warded cellar of a safe house, changing your names. I’m going to go out on a limb and guess you don’t really want to Apparate back wherever you came from.” A pause. “Look. I get that you’re probably scared shitless. Lots of people are, but I need to look out for the safety of the people on this side of the door, too. This is standard for everyone who arrives here. Wands. Please.”

Harry looked to Hermione, who exchanged looks with Draco.

“I think we’d better,” she said.“Draco can do a decent wandless Shield. Be ready, and we’re all ready to get back to campsite if need be. But here goes.” She pushed her wand through the keyhole, flinching a little when the last bit of vine wood disappeared from sight. 

Harry studied Draco, and shook his head. “Never thought I’d see a day where I’d trust you on something like this, even if it’s Hermione’s plan as well.” He tipped his wand through the keyhole.

Ron followed, then Draco.

The feel of the magic on the door changed, and the latch clicked as the handle turned. 

Theo's mouth dropped open when he saw Harry standing before him. His eye landed on Draco next, and his face creased with half a dozen emotions crammed into an instant. He nearly swayed in place, and then he found his voice.

“Draco, you bastard, you're alive?” Theo rushed forward and threw his arms around Draco in a rough embrace.

Draco returned the hug, surreptitiously eyeing the others. “Good to see you too.” After another moment, he coughed discreetly. “Nott, this is getting unseemly.”

“Don't talk to me about unseemly,” Theo said. He let go and shoved Draco lightly in the chest. “I fucking grieved, you dick.” He hugged him again, then stepped back for another look at the Golden Trio.

“That explains the fake names, I’ll admit. Holy shit,” he said. “You should hear the stories people are telling about the three of you already. I know I’ve seen you for years, but it’s weird. In my mind, I’ve been remembering you taller.” He took them in for another moment, then turned and bellowed back into the house. “Hannah!! Hannah, get over here a tick!”

“Give me a sec, love, the custard’s thickening and I need to watch it!” came her answering shout.

“Fuck the custard, woman!”

“Theo, language!”

“Sorry!” he shouted. “Hannah, seriously, you need to come over!”

“Okay, I’m coming!” She was still talking as she came around the corner. “Theo, sweetheart, what’s gotten into you?” She saw them, then, and stopped in the middle of wiping her hands clean on a red apron with ruffles and a sweetheart neckline.

Hermione gave a little wave. “Hi, Hannah.”

“Hermione!” Hannah squeaked. She flung herself onto Hermione, rocking her from side to side. “Oh my goodness, you’re here! You’re safe! We’ve all been so worried.” 

Ron was next to Hermione, and Hannah hugged him next, scritchling her fingers lightly against his shoulders. “Ron, it’s so, so good to see you. Ginny’s here, too. Well, she’s out at the moment, but oh, she’ll be so happy. We’ll have to send word to your mum.”

“Ginny’s--she is? Do you know if the rest of my family’s all right?”

Hannah nodded. “Last we heard was from Charlie, and before that from Fred, and George was with him, naturally. It’s not safe to send owls anymore, but we have a few ears around, and there are other methods You-Know-Who won’t track. Did you know Muggles have this funny thing called a telephone? That’s where Ginny is, actually, a Muggle village, waiting for messages. As best as we’ve heard, your family’s spread out a bit, but no bad news has come in.”

Ron’s body loosened in relief.

Hannah turned to Harry next, cupping his face in her hands before wrapping her arms around him. “And you! Oh, Harry, I’m so glad you’re safe. I can’t tell you how encouraging it is, just to see you. The others will want to hear all your news, of course, but we can give you a room a bit out of the way. You must need rest.”

Then she seemed to notice Draco, standing off to the side from the Golden Trio, for the first time.

“Oh,” she said. She stepped back, twisting her hands in front of her. “Oh my.”

“Hi, Hannah.”

“Draco, you--you look well.”

Draco glanced at Theo. Theo side-stepped closer to Hannah and put a hand on her back.

Draco shook his head and nudged Hermione. “I should probably go.”

“No.” She grabbed his hand firmly. Draco was gratified, but it didn’t seem like the moment for grandstanding.

“Hannah, we’ve got a tent,” Draco said. “Our food stores are low, but I just need a safe place to sleep somewhere on the property. It barely matters where, at this point.”

“Have you gone mad?” Theo said. “You’ll stay right here, with the rest of us.”

Hannah’s pained smile didn’t quite make it to her eyes. “We don’t turn anyone away,” she said firmly. She sounded like she was reading from a credo.

“I can vouch for him. There’s a lot to tell you,” Hermione said. She was still squeezing Draco’s hand, standing near enough to him that the whole length of their forearms pressed together. “Is there space for the four of us?”

Theo rolled his eyes. “We could probably fit all the Muggleborns in the country in here, if we needed to, and they were willing to squish in a bit. Some days it feels like we already have.”

“Did you hear the messages we left?” Hannah said.

“Hermione and Malfoy figured them out,” Harry said.

“Thank goodness,” Hannah said, although she still wouldn’t look Draco in the face. She brushed her hands down the front of her apron again and stood a little straighter. “You really have come at the right time. There’s a lot the Order will want to tell you--the three of you, at least, and there’s plenty of room for everyone. Theo’s right. Oh! And dinner’s just about ready, although I can easily keep it warm, if you’d rather get set up in rooms, first, or take a shower.”

“Oh, my God,” Hermione almost groaned.

“Rather food first,” Ron said.

“For once, we agree,” Draco said.

“Okay,” Hannah said. “Yes. That would give me a moment to review my room chart as well, which is helpful, although--hm. Theo, love, do you think we should put them in the morning room, to eat? It’s just that them being here is bound to stir up a lot of--excitement?”

“Oh. Sure, yeah. That’s probably smart. We don’t want Potter to get trampled.”

“Or me to get hexed into ribbons, correct?” Draco said.

Theo made a polite grimace. “Granger’s vouchsafe will go a long way, I’m sure. The Order will undoubtedly have questions for you nonetheless, but why not wait for them instead of having everyone weigh in? We can take the House Elves’ corridor to the morning room from here; it’s perfectly discreet.”

Hannah beckoned, and Hermione, Harry, and Ron followed her around the corner to a narrow corridor.

Draco hung back a few paces and caught Theo by the sleeve.

“Nott, a word?” 

“What’s the matter?”

“I don’t mean to be presumptuous, but what exactly is on the menu?”

Theo’s lip curved up. “When have you ever failed to be presumptuous? Hannah made chicken pie, I think, if that won’t offend your lordly sensibilities. Not to be rude myself, but by the look of you, it might be a good idea to grab a plate of whatever you can get.”

“Chicken pie,” Draco said honestly, “May be the most enticing pair of words I’ve heard in months. If it wouldn’t be an inconvenience, don’t plan to give Potter any rice, at least for a week or so.”

“Is he all right?”

“He’s fine. It’s been...trying. As you’ve observed, none of us has been sitting down for three courses of anything lately. He’d take it as a favor.”

Theo waited a moment, in case Draco would say anything else, then cleared his throat lightly. “Hannah’s an excellent cook. She often enjoys asking new arrivals about favorite dishes, allergies, all of that. I expect she’ll be eager to treat Potter to anything we can get ingredients for. There was something of a scramble, once the Order realized weeks were going by with no word and no way to contact the Golden Boy.”

Draco rolled his eyes. “Gryffindors.”

“Cast first, ask questions never.”

They joined the others in a small room lined with floor-to-ceiling windows. The sun had set, but it was easy to imagine how light and airy the room must look in early light. The ash wood table and white, curlicue chairs would nearly float. The sight of golden pastry crust, and the savory smell coming from beneath the lid, was far more captivating than whatever charming decor the Nott family could have selected.

Real food, on proper dishes. Real cups filled with lemonade or tea, without the odd aftertaste of water generated through a water-making spell. A roof and walls to shut out the sound of night insects, leaving them instead with the sounds of metal clinking against china. If Draco understood correctly, he could expect to sleep in an actual bed tonight for the first time in months. Luxury upon luxury.

So better, then, as much as possible, to push away the thoughts of who else Draco would see in this house, and what a questioning by the Order entailed, and the idea that while days and nights spent out in the woods were far, far worse, there was a simplicity about that time that had now reached its end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Theo and Hannah are the minor pairing I didn't plan for, but so enjoy now that it's happening. I hope you are happy to see them, too. Thinking about how to set up processes to safely admit people to a safe house was a cool puzzle, and I'm looking forward to bringing in some characters beside the foursome.
> 
> About Draco and Theo: The whole canon situation on Draco's (lack of) friendships is so interesting. He's clearly highly social, but I do agree with JK that highlighting Draco's struggle to make genuine, close friendships was an important difference between him and Harry. My best guess is that Draco and Theo were hot and cold, in part *because* they grew up together. I can easily see Narcissa taking pity on poor motherless Theo, and Draco lashing out with all the sibling rivalry, without necessarily having the sibling closeness to cut the sharpness. They have so much in common, and I think they'd have stretches of near-brotherly relationship, especially when Draco was at one extreme or another (feeling particularly secure/in his parents' favor, or feeling rejected enough to grab at closeness wherever he can get it). It would have been easy for Draco to see Theo as competition for attention at other times, though. 
> 
> One important scheduling note: I will be out of town next week such that it will be difficult for me to take my computer along without possibly melting it? So this fic will update next in TWO weeks, on the 26th.


	47. The Safe House

Lupin and some other prominent members of the Order were away on a mission for a few days, which suited Hermione fine. The situation at Nott Manor was better than she’d hoped. As it turned out, “not accounted for” was more Potterwatch code, meaning that the people were, in fact, safe and sound, accounted for at Nott’s. Seamus Finnigan, Ginny, and many others had successfully found shelter, either for an ongoing stay or passing through on their way to other arrangements. Hermione had barely let herself dream of finding some of the classmates she’d heard mentioned on Potterwatch here, but she was grateful to find something almost like a small Hogwarts reunion in what might otherwise have been a foreboding manor.

On this particular afternoon, Hermione collapsed into an armchair, laughing. She’d forgotten what a relief it was to be around other girls sometimes. She, Hannah, and Ginny had been tearing through the manor for the last thirty minutes and had stumbled into the formal parlor (not to be confused with the rotunda, or the formal dining room, or the other spot that seemed to have no other name but “the Nook”). Ginny had secured a Spice Girls VHS tape, and a broken-down TV that she and Hermione had jerry-rigged back into playing. The three of them had decided to recreate “Wannabe” as faithfully as possible, and given how much of the original video involved running at random through a mansion, Hermione was getting a decent workout in.

One hiccup in their plan, of course, was that there were only three of them, not five, so there was some amount of improvisation involved in distribution of parts. Ginny had ended up in a shouting match with herself over what, exactly, she really, really wanted until all three of them surrendered to a laughing fit.

When Hannah caught her breath, she said, “The trouble is you really are both Ginger and Sporty. It’s no wonder you get mixed up with which part to sing.”

“I’m Scary as well, at least according to some. And my brothers and mum are only ever going to see me as the baby,” Ginny said. “The only thing I’m not is Posh, which is just as well or I’d never have a second to breathe.”

“Merlin’s wand, you’re right, you’re nearly the whole band by yourself,” Hermione said. “And I’m none of them, I don’t think. Scary’s got the closest hair to mine, so maybe her? I’d probably get stuck with being Brainy Spice or something dull like that.”

“You’re not dull at all,” said Hannah.

Ginny put her chin on her hand to consider. “You could be Brainy Spice,” she said. “If you wanted. But then you’d have been in Ravenclaw as well, wouldn’t you? Bossy Spice is a bit more like it.”

Hannah sat up, inspired. “No, Boss Spice. Girl power, remember? Hermione founded DA in the beginning, although Harry of course does most of the meetings. She had the idea to do the inter-house Christmas party last year, too, and that’s part of why Theo and I even have this safe house at all, since we met there. Anytime anyone in the Order comes around, I feel like they ask after you nearly as much as Harry.”

“I like that a lot,” Hermione said. “I’d be really pleased, if that were me.”

“Brilliant,” Ginny said. “Hannah next. Goodness, and you’re easy, Hannah. Cozy Spice? Sweetheart Spice? Gentle Spice? Whatever you like.”

“Any of those sound lovely,” Hannah said with a soft smile.

Hermione wasn’t entirely sure she believed the smile. Hannah’s face had tipped down. Perhaps there was a wistfulness in her expression, too.

“What would you want to be?” she said.

“I think being kind and tender and gentle are wonderful things,” Hannah said. “Not everyone knows how to respect softness, but think how much worse off the world would be without it.”

“Right,” said Hermione. “But it takes strength to make space for softness, too.” She grinned. “You know what you’re like, Hannah? Now I think of it?”

“What?”

“You’re a bit like a knitting needle. You gather softness to you, wrap it all around yourself, and whenever you’re doing what you’re meant to do, anyone who comes into contact with you would feel all that coziness and warmth. But it’s all purposeful. You know how to make softness into something sturdy and useful, and that takes having something firm and well-directed underneath.”

Hannah’s smile brightened her face now. “Hermione, that’s beautiful. I’m honored. That’s one of the nicest compliments I think I’ve ever heard.”

“Not to bring down the mood,” Ginny said. “But Hermione, have you read the  _ Prophet  _ today?”

“No,” Hermione said. “I grabbed a bite from the kitchen this morning and spent a while in the library. There are a few objects that would work for Harry to destroy the locket, if we can get hold of it, but they’re difficult to get, too. Why, what’s in the paper?”

“You are,” Ginny said. “You’re officially listed as a Muggleborn wanted for questioning.”

Hannah bit her lip and reached out to touch Hermione’s knee. “I’m really sorry.”

“Wait,” Hermione said. “Was I not on the list already? I thought they’d been targeting Muggleborns for months. Who’s been on it before now?”

Ginny’s eyes held a mischievous spark. “Are you jealous that someone else was considered a more important target than you?”

Hermione crossed her arms. “I’m just saying. After all the commotion fourth year about my supposed romantic connection with Harry, not to mention founding DA, like Hannah pointed out. I just would have thought.”

Ginny smirked at Hannah. “Told you. She’s not worried, she’s offended.” To Hermione, there was a hint of an edge in her voice. “It is only a supposed romantic connection, right? You were in the woods for a while.”

“Oh, God,” Hermione said. “It’d be like snogging my brother.”

“She and Draco are back together,” Hannah said. She fiddled her hands together in her lap. 

Ginny twisted her mouth. “I heard someone else say that. I wasn’t sure how that could be true, although I guess why else would you even have brought him here? I can’t even be in the same room with him. You were making smarter choices when you were still socking him in the face.”

“I’ve put plenty of thought into my choices. You haven’t heard the full story, and everyone deserves that much.”

“He killed Dumbledore.”

“He didn’t, actually, and if you’ve listened to Harry anytime he’s talked about that night, you’d know that,” Hermione said. She sat straighter in her chair. “I really don’t want to argue about this. The Order will be here soon enough, and they’ll do their best to straighten matters out, as much as is possible anymore. You can’t deny I’ve been loyal to our side every step of the way, and got Harry and Ron in and out of hiding safely. If Draco’s with me, it means he’s with us, if anyone will let him be.”

“We hear you, Hermione, really we do,” Hannah said. “It’s just...it’s been hard. There’s been talk all summer that Hogwarts herself is in danger of falling to Death Eater control, and you know that wouldn’t even be a question if Dumbledore were still there.”

Hermione blanched. “McGonagall will never let that happen.”

“It may not be up to her,” Ginny said. “She’s still only one person. Everyone’s been talking about who’s going back and who isn’t.”

“You’re not, I take it?”

Ginny tossed her hair. “No, of course not. I’m needed on the ground. I can go back to school anytime, but actual lives depend on me right now.” 

“Why, what are you doing?”

She couldn’t help preening a little. “I’m getting people out, without magic. My dad helped me some, but I know more than he does by now about Muggle means of travel. What documents are needed, how to understand what options are available and who can help make arrangements. I helped Penelope Clearwater, and the Diggorys, and a bunch of other people. I’m basically the express ticket out of town, for those who need it.”

Hannah smiled. “If you need a ride, talk to Rider.”

Hermione fought a mixture of gratitude and a surge of disapproval. “Are most of the Muggleborns fleeing the country? I know people are frightened, but giving up your home instead of staying to defend it doesn’t seem like the best long-term course of action, either.”

“Many people are fighting,” Hannah said. “But others need safety, too. I imagine most of the people who have left wouldn’t have been able to fight even if they’d stayed, and might have been hurt.”

“Think of it tactically, if it helps,” Ginny said. “The Order can only be so many places at once. If we have a way to get the vulnerable out of reach of the Death Eaters, it takes away some of the need to arrange other forms of protection. We can act more swiftly if we’re not having to check in on people who aren’t actively helping, anyway. And you’ve got Hannah, as well, who’s hosting people who want to stay. Seamus’ parents went to Ireland, but he insisted on staying here. We’re marshalling as much power as we can. Even a few of the Slytherins, like Nott, have stepped up, now that it’s clear what’s at stake.”

Hermione raised an eyebrow. “Draco’s one of them, too. You don’t have to like him. He wouldn’t expect that much from you. Just try not to write him off completely, and I promise it’ll be worth it.”

*

Draco spent as much time as he could away from the others at Nott Manor as days went by without a visit from the Order. It was obvious that most of them still weren’t comfortable in his presence. Conversations stopped. Some people claimed they weren’t hungry, or were only there to fetch a glass of water, if he sat down at the common table for dinner. He started keeping odd hours.

The upside was that the manor was, after all, spacious enough for Draco to make himself scarce. Theo kept an eye out, too, discreetly suggesting a walk in the grounds or even just down the halls in a less-populated wing. Nott had the good breeding to phrase it as a favor Draco did him, allowing him a brief respite from managing the daily operations of a safe house, so Draco acted in turn as though he might believe him.

They were meandering past the library and Nott Sr.’s East Office, picking up and discarding idle fragments of conversation.

Draco ran his finger along the dark, blocky paneling. “Are you ever going to tear any of this out? You can’t possibly get enough light in here to justify the color, even in the morning.”

“That’s Tudor. Shows the age of the house.”

“Not arguing that,” Draco sniffed. “Age isn’t the same as taste.”

“Neither is shuffling half the furniture in and out of the house two or three times a year. What isn’t for sale at Malfoy Manor, to the right buyer?”

It was an old argument, supposed to be comfortable, but Draco’s stomach pinched. “Not much.”

Theo seemed to remember also that Draco was here, and not at home, and he fell silent, too. He picked the lock on the Potions lab door, an old trick he and Draco had exploited before learning the spell.

They puttered around for a few minutes, sniffing ingredients and shaking a few of the bottles whose contents responded to movement. Draco watched a vial of clear liquid turn brilliant azure and decided enough time had passed for him to speak without provoking an awkward explanation from Nott.

“I don’t mean to be gauche,” he said. “But how are you keeping this operation afloat?”

“Where’s the money come from, you mean?” Theo said with a crooked grin. “Gringotts, of course.”

Draco raised an eyebrow. “You expect me to believe you stroll up to the counter and ask to raid the family vault?”

“It’s more of a saunter than a stroll,” Theo said. “And heavens no, never ask. If I learned one solid thing from my dad, it’s that you never bow and scrape for a goblin. You pull the muscles around your nose just a bit, like this, and you say--” He dropped his voice a half-octave and looked down his nose at Draco. “‘I require the key to the Nott vault.’”

Draco made an amused noise. “Didn’t realize your father had time to make you joint custodian.”

“Funny thing, that,” Theo said. “The bastard never bothered to update the records when I was born. The custodian, officially, is Theodore Nott. No name suffix. I’m fully in the clear to walk out in broad daylight with all the Galleons I can carry. I will admit we’re burning through a bit. Not for the house--extra groceries and sundry guest items don’t add up quite that fast. Getting people out of the country is something of another matter.”

“Who’s left the country?”

“Millicent, almost immediately. She was one of the easier ones, since she got her hands on the most authentic-looking Muggle passport I’ve ever seen.” 

“Might not be fake,” Draco said, testing to see what Theo knew. Surprise and confusion on Nott’s face, so Draco backtracked. “The Bulstrodes are a Slytherin’s Slytherin. I’d imagine they’ve collected documents for any eventuality. Currency, travel and identification papers, whatever they need to be flexible.”

“You think she’s posing as a Muggle? I suppose it’s not the most far-fetched plan I’ve heard. At any rate, she needed some help with funds for a flight. Others have needed travel fare and documents. Ginny Weasley’s a passable forger herself, but she doesn’t have all the materials. Her contacts can get you something that looks genuine.”

Something wasn't adding up. “You said flights. How can Muggles fly without magic?”

Theo shuddered. “You don't want to know. It's barbaric.”

“And it’s safe? From prying eyes and ears, that is? Surely the Dark Lord is capable enough of tracking Muggle travel details.”

“You’d think, wouldn’t you?” Theo popped the top off a vial and started idly assembling ingredients for a batch of Invigorating Draught. “He doesn’t seem to be interested, though, as best as anyone can tell. I’m not privy to Order meetings, myself, but you come to know which walls are thin and the unexpected places voices can show up in a draughty old place like this. The older members, the ones who were in it all the first time? They say he’s acting the same as before. Almost exactly the same. Odd, given how much else has changed in sixteen years.”

Draco thought of ghosts. “They should tell Granger that, when they show up here.”

“You think she’d know something?”

“Nott, never underestimate how much she knows. You’re sure they’re not tracking Muggles, then? They were, over the school year. Granger’s parents might have been targets, to try to get to her.”

“Did they leave the country?”

“I believe so. It would have been months ago.” Draco hesitated. “I’d like to be able to tell her they’re safe.”

“But you don’t want her remembering that promise, if you’re wrong.” Theo frowned at the cauldron. “They probably are, if they got out that early. They’re at least not likely to be in more danger than anyone else on the Undesirable list. I thought Hannah and I would run the safe house for a few weeks, after the Ministry coup when a lot of people had to make quick decisions. There was so much more need than either of us expected.”

“How long will you keep it going?”

“As long as I can. Until the money gives out, or the war is done, whichever comes first.”

“What, all the money?”

Theo smirked. “And have to get a  _ real job, _ and live on  _ wages  _ like a common charms-caster? The horror, Malfoy. There’s more at stake than inheritance, mate, in case you haven’t noticed.”

“Yes, I’m aware of that,” Draco said. “It doesn’t mean I can’t be surprised. You’re talking about everything. All you were going to come into, in another year or two.”

“Maybe not  _ all  _ all. I’ve got a bit set aside, in the private vault in the house. Not too much. Enough for a ring for Hannah, at least, when the timing’s right.”

“You’re that sure?”

Theo ran a finger along the line of a shelf. He didn’t look at Draco, and his voice was suspiciously light. “This house is hers, as far as I’m concerned, whether she fully understands that or not. She was the one who wanted to contribute to the war effort. Her parents have her little sister’s needs to think about, too. I had space available, and money, and I thought, all right Nott, here’s something you can give her. I don’t hate it, being in this old place, when she’s around. The house feels different. Lots of things do. I don’t think I’ll ever want to part with that.” He shrugged. “Why do you ask? What made you sure of you and Granger?”

Draco didn't answer. The Boggart was nearly too private to tell even Hermione. As for the rest--it should count, to show up and offer somebody yourself. It should count more than anything, more than a manor that was only partly yours to give, but it didn't seem to, just then. Not when you’d wrecked yourself so utterly that the other person would be doing you a favor by accepting you, and you both knew it. 

Theo had always gotten to be a version of himself he liked, in front of Hannah. Perhaps he even liked himself better, next to her, than he had on his own. They hadn’t reached the point where you saw the worst of each other, and had to live with the knowledge that the other person had seen the side you hadn’t meant for other people to find. Maybe they wouldn’t have to reach that point at all, maybe that was just for the people who made too many wrong choices at the wrong time.

“Shit,” Theo said, and Draco realized he’d been quiet too long. “Sorry. I didn’t realize. When you arrived together I just assumed--and I could have sworn Hannah put the two of you in a room together, although that could have been me making idiot assumptions.”

“No, she did. We are. It’s--complicated,” Draco said, the word choking on his tongue.

“Sorry,” Theo said again. “Merlin, I keep bungling things today. New plan. Check this and see if you still trust me to put together an Invigoration Draught without it going half-cocked, and we’ll get hopped and go flying.”

Draco looked at Theo sidelong, then sniffed at the cauldron. “You don’t need to keep going out of your way all the time, you know. I can handle myself all right.”

“Shut up. I’ll give you the shit broom.”

*

After what seemed like ages, though it was barely a week, the Order arrived. Harry, Ron, and Hermione all flew out of their seats when Lupin walked into the dining room one evening.

Harry reached Lupin first. Lupin patted him on the back. He eyed the others, and though he looked even more tired than usual, Hermione could see the spark of real gladness in his face, too. He even hugged Hermione, the first time she could ever remember her former professor doing so.

“I should have known better than to take my eye off you,” he told her, half-admonishing, half-proud. “Don’t go running off like that again. Although you did a masterful job of interpreting our call, and keeping the three of you safe and hidden.”

“She got Malfoy, too,” Harry said.

“Yes,” Lupin said. “Hannah told me. Is he still here?”

Hermione nodded. “He doesn’t eat with us. He took a tray upstairs.”

“We’ll need to speak to him immediately.”

“I can get him. Where should we meet you?”

Lupin creased his forehead at her emphasis. “The parlor is fine, I imagine. He can meet us there.”

“I’d like to come as well.”

“I don’t think that’s a very good idea.”

Hermione crossed her arms. “He’s already going to feel like he’s on trial.”

“I’ll assure him he isn’t. I can only do so much to make him believe me.” Lupin sighed. “I don’t pretend to know much about your relationship to him. I wasn’t aware of it at all before the events of the Astronomy Tower. Hannah and Theo told me Draco arrived with you, and gave me a brief overview, but we’re all very much in the midst of catching up on information. As the matter stands, you need to consider that it’s not going to reflect well on him if he’s looking to you before answering questions, and we have no way of knowing what he might hold back if you’re in the room. We’ll speak to him alone, and I’m afraid that’s final.”

Still, Hermione could at least insist on waiting with Draco and Lupin for the other Order members to make their way to the parlor. Kingsley Shacklebolt shook her hand and offered the same to Draco, but he didn’t take it. Hermione glared at Draco. His face didn’t change. Nymphadora Tonks was there as well. Lupin’s face went soft when he saw her. He leaned in to put his cheek against hers, and Hermione heard him murmur, “Are you all right, darling?”

Tonks nodded and gave him a private smile.

Next to Hermione, Draco’s back straightened a little.

“Can we get this over with?” he said, reaching for the door, before another sound made him tense up.

The rhythmic thump of wood against the floor sounded down the hall, drawing closer. Moody’s false eye rolled, the sickly blue sliding in the socket until he spotted Draco.

“There he is! Little miscreant. Could have told you years ago he’d end up on the wrong side of some trouble.”

“Let’s all have a chance to speak before we draw conclusions,” Lupin said. “I’m surprised you recognize him.”

“I remember the kid. Spoiled little weaselly type. Strutting around those stuffy events like he thinks he’s the Minister of Magic,” Moody barked. “Turning him into a ferret is the best favor I ever did for him.”

Lupin gave Moody a sharp look. “Alastor, that wasn’t you. You were locked in a trunk for months.”

Moody waved a dismissive hand. “It’s one of the few things that bastard did I can agree with. A little Transfiguration’s what the boy needed.”

“I doubt it would be a productive approach now,” Lupin said firmly. “Draco, as I explained to Hermione earlier, you are not on trial. We’d like to ask you some questions to help us determine our best options to keep you safe, as well as any others staying here. So it will be to everyone’s benefit for you to take your time, and answer as fully as you can, so we can make plans based on the best information possible.” 

“In you get,” Moody said.

Draco didn’t move.

Tonks smiled at him. “In you get,” she said, more kindly. “Remus, do you think we could ask the House Elves for tea? I wouldn’t mind a cup of something hot.”

“Of course.” Lupin paused in the doorway. “Hermione, you’re welcome to wait out here, although I’m not sure for certain how long we’ll be. Or, another option is to wait in the Great Room, by the kitchens, and see if you can get Harry and Ron together with you. We’ll want to talk with the three of you next.” Then he shut the door.

Hermione compromised, leaving briefly to let Harry and Ron know the evening’s plan, and reflexively grabbing a book off the coffee table, and then returning to camp herself in the hall.

It took just over an hour and a half (or only about 45 pages of reading, mixed in with frequent, fruitless tries at listening through the door or wall). Draco slunk past her when the Order let him out, and Shacklebolt swept Hermione, along with Harry and Ron, into the room before she had a chance to ask Draco how it went. Tonks excused herself as well, saying she was tired.

Lupin clapped his hands together, a hungry-looking grin on his face.

“We’ve got a lot to cover,” he said. “In other circumstances, I’d want to hear every detail of what you three have been up to, but to be perfectly frank, I’m sick of the waiting myself. Now that you’re here, the Order can move forward with a number of plans we’ve been preparing.”

“We still want to take a measured approach,” Shacklebolt warned. “There’s a lot of risk, even with Potter here.”

“Go easy on him, Kingsley,” Moody said. “Young ones like Remus are always eager to jump ahead. They’re not used to too much hurry-up-and-wait.”

“Harry,” Shacklebolt said. “Before Dumbledore passed, how much did he tell you about something called a Horcrux?”

Hermione groaned. If the Order was this far behind, how were they going to take any meaningful action against Voldemort?

“A fair bit,” Harry was saying. “And Hermione’s been researching while we’ve been hiding out, as well. I got a memory from Slughorn, last year. Dumbledore showed me. There are seven.”

“See? I told you they’d know,” Lupin said. “Seven? Are you certain?”

“That’s what Dumbledore told us,” Hermione said.

Moody’s eye swirled from Harry to Hermione and Ron. “He must have thought very highly of the three of you, then. He didn’t confirm the number to anyone else, not even the Order.”

“We’ve been hard at work determining which objects are likeliest to be Horcruxes. You-Know-Who wasn’t a young man in the first Wizarding War,” Lupin said. “And of course it’s been sixteen years since then, although how much he was aware during part of that time is difficult to determine. For a while, it seemed an impossible task to guess what he would have chosen. In fifty years of life, how many experiences could have been meaningful enough to leave part of your soul in?”

“Dumbledore’s notes, though they are few and cryptic, held the key,” Shacklebolt said. “Fragmenting your soul means limiting your growth. Part of you remains stuck as you were, so creating a Horcrux greatly reduces your ability to take meaning and pleasure in events that happen after.”

“He made his first as a student. The diary. The second, a ring Dumbledore found and destroyed, was also likely made when You-Know-Who had barely left Hogwarts. Possibly even still while he was a student,” Lupin said. “Harry, the necklace you gave me, the false Horcrux. It’s a perfect replica of an amulet belonging to Salazar Slytherin himself, according to legend. You-Know-Who was binding himself tighter and tighter to Hogwarts. Based on this, and the overall strength of his ties to Hogwarts, we strongly suspect that Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw’s tools are Horcruxes, as well.”

“How are we supposed to know what their tools are, though?” Ron said.

“We’re still stuck,” said Harry.

“Honestly, the pair of you!” Hermione said. She smacked them both, hard, on the shoulder. “Open. Hogwarts. A History. And you won’t sound. Like bloody nitwits. Every--single--time--we talk about something important.”

“A cup and a diadem,” Lupin said with a smile. “Gryffindor’s sword is untouched. Typical House rivalry, I imagine.”

“So you’re planning to return to Hogwarts and steal the Founders’ talismans?” Hermione said. 

Lupin let out a bitter laugh. “I haven’t been welcome at Hogwarts in years. Not since Snape ratted me out. You’d be amazed how many parents will send their children to a Death Eater-run Hogwarts willingly enough, but balk at a werewolf on staff. Very few people at all know about the passage at the Shrieking Shack, though. I was able to get onto the grounds and meet with Hagrid. He brought us this.” He pulled out a ragged, dingy brown hat, which glowered back at him when he set it on the table. “This is where you come in, Harry.”

Hermione’s jaw dropped. There was something scandalous about seeing the Sorting Hat outside of its place of honor in the annual ceremony.

Moody nudged the Hat closer to Harry. “Not even any Gryffindor can pull the Sword from the Hat, but we hear you’ve managed it. It’s powerful, old magic. It’ll do the trick against just about anything. If you can get it for us, we can destroy a Horcrux when we get hold of it.”

“Wait,” Hermione said. “You don’t have the Horcruxes at all? You just know what they are?”

“And where,” Shacklebolt said. “Through the Ministry of Magical Education connection, You-Know-Who has pumped Hogwarts full of Death Eater faculty. It’s a strange choice as a show of power. Even wizards with strong blood conviction have misgivings about active Death Eaters supervising their children. It’s fairly clear the real strategy is to guard Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw’s tools on the property.”

“We have one more guess on a potential Horcrux, as well,” Lupin said. “It would only bring us to six, but that may be enough to weaken him enough to have to go back into hiding, bide his time, and buy us time to identify the last. We think his snake might serve as a Horcrux, as well.”

Harry nodded. “Dumbledore thought so.”

“I’m still not sure I’m convinced,” Shacklebolt said. “It breaks the Hogwarts pattern, and I’m not sure how the spell would work in a living being, rather than an object.”

Hermione shivered at the sick feeling in her stomach. “Did you ask Draco about the snake?”

Lupin frowned. “Should we have?”

“He’s told me about it. The way it moves, the things it’s capable of doing. It doesn’t act like an animal, not even a familiar. It would make more sense, in a way, if they really were connected soul-to-soul.”

“The bugger held back on us after all,” Moody muttered.

“We didn’t ask him about it,” Lupin said. “He may not even have made the connection. Hermione, how much have you told him about this mission?”

“Not a lot,” Hermione said. “He was in such bad shape when he reached us, and he doesn’t like talking about anything to do with You-Know-Who.”

Lupin nodded. “So first order of business is to see if Harry still has the touch. No, not right this moment, Harry, goodness. Wait until we’ve got a safe place to store the Sword, if you do succeed. The second step we wanted to discuss with the three of you is getting Slytherin’s real necklace.”

“You said it was in Gringotts,” Hermione said.

“It’s high time it wasn’t,” Shacklebolt said. “It’s a risky mission, but I’ve formed a diplomatic agreement with one of the goblins working in the bank, exchanging his services as a guide for my word to pass certain legislation once we retake the Ministry. Harry, you have the only true Invisibility Cloak we’re aware of in functional condition, and we understand Hermione adapts particularly well to Polyjuice potion. It would be tight, but we think you can make it in and out of the Black vault in time.”

Lupin grimaced. “I rejected this plan before, but we’ve run every scenario we could think of, and this stands the best chance. We need to go in after the necklace if we have any hope of ever seeing it.”

Hermione looked to her left and right. The boys met her eye, and although everything was so much larger than anything that had come before, she recognized a glint in both of their eyes, mischief and adventure and something more like anticipation than fear. She could feel it in her face, too. Finally-- _ finally _ \--they were going to get a chance to  _ do  _ something.

“Let’s do it, then,” she said. “Let’s rob Gringotts.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back! And with a longish chapter to boot. I hope it is worth the wait.
> 
> I've got to tip my hat to Tumblr user courtnog, whose post that I saw on Pinterest (https://i.pinimg.com/originals/b7/72/bb/b772bbbb133dc638373708d1c127877d.jpg) made it essential for me to address the Spice Girls within the context of a wartime HP fic. Spice World was the first CD I ever owned, and I have many fond memories of cleaning my room to it.
> 
> You will notice, as my beloved beta did, that my Lupin is much more like the third-year, tired-but-responsible professor version of himself than canon's moody, suddenly-highly-weird-about-becoming-a-father version. IDK, 7th-book Lupin feels kind of OOC to me (if that's even possible, considering he's canon), and I desperately wanted some adult in this godforsaken universe to step up and be like, "There is a war, and children are fighting it, and I am a grown-ass adult who really ought to be taking some degree of responsibility here." Like, argh, at this point Draco hasn't heard an adult tell him the main priority is to keep him safe in what, a year? Not that he's likely to believe it coming from Lupin, but phreeow, let the guy hear it somewhere.
> 
> Finally, I hate the word Muggleborn/Muggle-born, and I despair of ever landing on one to use consistently. I am deeply sorry every time I use it, because I write this fic in the evenings when I am mostly wiped out from work and toddler and baby, and I simply cannot be bothered to look back and figure out how I've spelled it before. That and Borgin &(and?) Burkes are the plagues of my existence.


	48. Reputation

Draco wasn’t used to being hated. He’d faced his share of criticism and disapproval at home, for sure, but he’d known, in a way, that the height of his parents’ standards for him was also a measure of their esteem. And at Hogwarts, he’d either been feared or, more often, fairly well liked. He was used to being able to hold people’s attention at mealtimes, make them laugh or join in with him when he had a plan in mind he thought was interesting. Even when some, like Potter, didn’t like him, that very dislike was something Draco felt he could control. He’d derived enjoyment often enough from goading someone into a reaction.

Not like this, though. Not like how it was here. Weeks, and he was still waiting for anyone besides Granger and Nott to extend any warmth his way. For Salazar’s sake, Hannah Abbott, who everyone talked about like she was some kind of saint, barely had it in her to look him in the face. Never mind the open hostility he faced from everyone else, as though it was a dirty surprise every morning to realize they’d slept under the same roof as him. 

It stung, more than he cared to admit. Worse was seeing Granger light up every time Hannah or Ginny invited her to hang out, or see her deep in conversation with Finnigan, the two of them laughing over some bloody fascinating material that all fell under the umbrella of, “Muggle stuff, don’t worry about it.”

Hannah had moved him and Hermione to a room in a far wing when it became clear that some occupants of the house were curious enough to linger around the main guest rooms, hoping to gape at the Dark Mark when Draco was changing. 

It was beginning to seem that some of the more daring guests of the safe house were ready for more than a look. He thought he’d noticed people jostling him more on his left side when they passed him in the halls. Once, a Ravenclaw called Terry Wildsmith grabbed him, just for an instant, above the elbow before Draco shook him off with a curt jab of his own. As he reached the end of the hall, he heard voices, and his name, and he slowed to listen while he was still out of sight.

“Horace got a look at it. He says he saw it move.” The thick accent gave Seamus Finnigan away.

A hiss of disgust. “How sick do you need to be to get that thing on you?” said Kaden MacDougal, a sixth-year, or would have been, had he been at Hogwarts this year.

“I heard You-Know-Who can talk to the Death Eaters through it.”

“So he could be planning attacks with them now?”

“What else do you think he’s doing? If I were Moody, I’d use him as bait. Let him call as many of those bastards as he wants, blaze the wine cellar up with Fiendfyre, then Apparate Malfoy into a dementor nest.”

“I wonder how deep it goes. The Mark, you know? You’d only need a few people to hold him down, and a good sharp knife. Cut him off from his master, literally.”

A bitter bark of a laugh. “Who knows? If the Mark’s got that strong of an enchantment to it, he might be grateful to us if we did.”

Draco straightened his shoulders, swaggered into view, and turned an icy stare on the other boys.

“Aren’t you a bit far from your dorms? Rude of you to go wandering around private areas of the estate.”

“We have every right to go where we like,” MacDougal said. “You’re the one confined to his room. Hannah’s too nice to make you eat in the dungeon, but she can keep you out of the dining room.”

Draco curled his lip. “I prefer not to have your face spoiling my appetite.” 

“Yeah, well we’d prefer not to have Death Eaters stinking up what’s supposed to be a safe house,” Seamus said. “We think it’s about time you made plans to move along somewhere else, maybe with your own kind, and free up a bed for someone from the Order or DA who actually deserves it.”

Draco laughed. “That’s bloody rich, Finnigan,” he said. “I was at the DA meetings last year, wanker. I never saw you.” A delightful thought occurred to him. “You’ve tried to join up now, have you? Imagine that. These brave Gryffindors play tagalong, while the Slytherin’s been a card-carrying member the whole time.”

Color rushed to Seamus’ ears. “You’re a filthy bloody traitor, is what you are.” 

“The Order doesn’t appear to agree, do they? You’d know that, if you were important enough for them to bother with you.” Draco pushed past them and tossed a look over his shoulder. “The knives are in the kitchen, incidentally. Come find me if you ever develop the brains or balls to back up that mouth.” 

“Break his fucking arm,” MacDougal said. “Come here, you backstabbing piece of shit.”

Both boys started forward, determination and hatred written over their faces. They didn’t even bother taking out their wands. 

Draco jogged down a flight of stairs. There must be more than three dozen people staying here, so of course now was the moment when he couldn’t hear or see another soul. Finnigan and MacDougal were picking up speed, egging each other on, and Draco was beginning to seriously hurry. 

He ducked down one of the narrow corridors meant for House Elves and pushed open a door labeled, “Supply.” 

He’d expected to be alone. He would have been annoyed, though not terribly surprised, to find and shoo away a House Elf. He was much more taken aback to find a boy with messy black hair and a lightning-shaped scar.

“The hell are you doing in here, Potter?”

Potter frowned at him. “I was thinking. In private.”

“Well, clear out.”

“You sod off, I was here first.”

“Tosser.” Draco tried a sneer. Still morning and he already felt too spent to put more than a token effort into keeping up appearances.

Potter sighed. “Sit down. I guess there’s enough space in here for both of us.”

“I don’t need your pity,” Draco spat.

Potter almost laughed. “After all this time, you think I’m going to start pitying you? Stop being a git and pull up a bucket if you want, but let me be. I’m not in the mood for a fight.”

Draco pulled an upturned bucket out from under a low shelf with his fingertips and perched on it. Potter had already put his forehead back in his hands. 

Draco inspected his fingernails. Too late to pretend he’d come in here looking for fresh towels or a bar of soap. Way too weird to try to ignore Potter the way Potter was ignoring him. He wasn’t even trying not to look upset. 

“Shouldn’t you be mingling with your admirers, or having tea with the Minister of Magic? Can’t you find something better to occupy your time than getting in my way?”

Potter let out something like a laugh. “Better. Yeah. Shortage of people asking for my time isn’t really my problem right now. Everyone keeps looking at me like I know something special. They touch me when I’m passing them, on the arm or back, you know? Like it’s for good luck.”

“Poor Potter, exhausted by glory. You know what they do to me when I pass?”

Potter raised his eyes to meet Draco’s. “Did it feel like glory for you, last year?”

Draco stilled. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I wish I didn’t,” Potter said vehemently. “Lupin wants me to tell him about nightmares and things. Any flash of  _ him  _ in my head. The Order thinks maybe they’re not just dreams, like he and I are linked enough that I might be seeing glimpses of things that are really happening.” He cracked his knuckles. “It’s bad enough as a dream.”

Draco shuddered at the memory of the Dark Lord’s presence in his mind, ice burn and something oily and rotten, a lingering stain. “Can he see you?”

“I try not to let him. Snape tried to teach me.”

“It doesn’t always work,” Draco said.

“It has to, doesn’t it? Or he’s going to find more people eventually, through me.” 

Draco rolled his eyes. “Pity the others in the house aren’t here to hear you say that. The better money in this house is that he’d use me. People think the Dark Lord sings me to sleep at night.”

Potter paused. “You really saw him, right? Not just other Death Eaters?”

“Yes.”

“I saw him get born, sort of, or--made. Whatever you want to call it. When he got the new body.”

Draco’s lip pulled back in disgust. Harry nodded like he’d spoken.

“Yeah. Exactly. I don’t get into it much. Cedric was already dead. That was more important. But I saw it. I was part of it, sort of. Wormtail cut me, put my blood in the cauldron. Then he cut off his hand.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

“You saw him, too,” Potter said. He put a hand up against his neck. “Do you think he’s, you know. Human?”

Draco folded his arms over his chest and pressed himself back against the shelf. He didn’t want to be there. Potter was looking at him through those ridiculous spectacles, and it didn’t seem real how open and sincere his eyes could look, with the things he was saying.

“No,” Draco said. He hesitated, and he could swear Potter gave the tiniest nod of his head, like an unconscious gesture to go on. “He doesn’t look like a real person. Or sound like one. But I don’t know what else he could be.”

“Yeah. That’s what I thought.” Potter breathed out in relief. “He’s not like anything I’ve ever seen, or heard about. I saw what he was before. Dumbledore showed me memories in his Pensieve. He was weird, always, even when he was our age, but sometimes--sometimes I wonder if Dumbledore and Sirius and Lupin and all of them really understand how much he’s changed, now. Maybe they’re still thinking of Riddle, you know? And Riddle’s gone.”

The expression on Potter’s face was eerie, sickeningly familiar. It was the look of someone realizing how far in over his head he was. Draco could almost hear the next words out of Potter’s mouth before he said them.

“I’m starting to wonder if I’m going to make it out of all of this.”

“Granger believes in you.” Draco felt leaden.

“Thanks, but that doesn’t really help right now.”

“It’s not meant to help you, you prick. She’ll risk anything for you. You need to figure something out, or she’s going to get hurt or worse trusting you.”

“Yeah. So you get why I’m here.”

Draco leaned forward and clasped his hands in front of him. Potter bent his head back into his hands.

“Fuck it,” Draco said. He stood up. “I’m going to piss off, then. You stay here. Do what you need to do.”

“All right,” Potter said. “Hey. Don’t tell anyone I’m in here.”

“I won’t.” He paused, one hand on the door. “Get it sorted. Right, Potter? They need to believe you’ve got something figured out.”

Granger had at least promised to hang out with him for a little while in the afternoon, before dinner. Draco was on his way to the library when he ran into Tonks. Her hair was almost as light as his today.

“Hey you,” she said. “I was looking for you.”

“Why?”

“Oh, stop,” she said. “I come in peace. Do you have a moment?”

“I’m meeting someone.”

Tonks arched an eyebrow. “Hermione or Theo?” She waited briefly for a response that didn’t come, then tipped her chin up in an impatient gesture that, for an instant, reminded Draco a little of his mother. “Draco, be reasonable. I’m not trying to impinge on your privacy, but it’s a bit ridiculous to pretend the entire house doesn’t know who’s currently on speaking terms with you. It’s not a difficult list to remember. Whichever one of them it is, they’re not going to mind if you spend five minutes with me in the parlor first.”

“How could I possibly decline such a gracious invitation?” Draco said haughtily.

“Marvelous.” Tonks grinned. “Does the rest of the family really talk like that? My mum tried to tell me the Blacks put on airs, but I never believed her. I don’t know how you’re supposed to make it through a whole dinner without cracking up.” She held the door, relaxed into a French armchair, and watched Draco sit on the double chaise. “Have you given any thought to the idea we discussed?”

Draco glanced at the door. An ambush interrogation from the Order, then. Perfect. “No. Am I to understand I still have a choice in the matter?”

“Yes, you have a choice. I’d be interested to know why I’m getting such a flat refusal, though.”

Draco gave her a contemptuous look. “I thought being the youngest Auror in the Order meant you were intelligent. One suicide mission was enough for one lifetime.”

If Tonks minded the insult, she didn’t show it. “I can appreciate that. What’s making you think of it as a suicide mission, though?”

“Be serious.”

“I am. I disagree with your assessment of the risks.”

“You do it then, if you think it’s such a simple matter.”

“I didn’t say it was simple. I said we had a good plan. For that matter, I did volunteer myself immediately. My skills make me ideal for the job.” She gestured at her hair and face. “Or so we thought. My control over some of the shifts has been less consistent, lately. Remus all but forbade me outright, and while that would usually make me that much more likely to go for it, unfortunately, my gut tells me this mission may be too risky for me.”

“But not for me?”

She ignored the scorn in his voice. “You told us Snape told you the entire Wizarding community wanted you dead. What I need you to understand is that’s at best a highly oversimplified, and really just plain inaccurate, assessment of the current situation.” She crossed her legs and folded her hands over her knee. “Right after the events of June 12, I might have agreed with him. The first thing we learn in training about civilians, though, is they’re fickle. There’s been a whole summer of rumors, other news, smear campaigns against Dumbledore, you name it. Nowadays, when it comes to you, there’s two main rumors still circulating. The first is that you’re dead. Obviously, not the case. The second is that you’re some kind of Dark savant, who got rapidly promoted to You-Know-Who’s innermost circle under a cloak of secrecy. There’s a smattering of people who’d think differently, but I’d wager my entire vault that almost anyone who sees you still breathing takes it as confirmation that you’ve been pillaging and torturing the summer away as the Dark Lord’s prodigy. More than a few people in this safe house are afraid of you.”

Draco ran a finger underneath his jaw, interested despite himself. He’d assumed it was all mockery and loathing.

“What do you suggest, then?”

“You’re a Slytherin, right? Ambitious and cunning. I’m keeping an eye on you. You carry yourself well, even under pressure here. If the common consensus on you is you’re the Dark Lord’s princeling, how can you use that as a tool? Who should continue believing that, and who needs to be persuaded differently?”

“Rather tidy, isn’t it? You think I have an image problem, and you just so happen to have a solution in mind that ties in perfectly with your mission. You’re not subtle with your tactics.”

Tonks laughed. “I haven’t tried to be! Of course your cooperation would benefit the Order. That’s how helping works. I didn’t plan to insult your intelligence by playing at subterfuge. Look, Draco, by all means take the safe route and keep skulking around not talking to anyone. That’s certainly an approach that’s available to you, and I hope it works out the way you want it to. If you decide you’re interested in taking action on a mission that is virtually guaranteed to improve your standing in this house, come talk to me.”

Finally, he made it to the double doors of the library. Hermione had her legs tucked up under her on a couch. She held out an arm for him to lean in next to her.

“You’re late,” she said happily. 

“Not my doing,” he said. “Tonks wanted a word.”

She made a sympathetic face. “Oh. I hoped you were getting a chance to hang out with Theo, or someone, and lost track of the time. Is everything okay? What did Tonks want?”

“Nothing important. Come here.” He put an arm around her waist and pulled her in to kiss her. She had her arm draped casually over his shoulders, and for some reason it rubbed him the wrong way. There was something smug about her, like she took it for granted that he’d be eager to see her whenever she decided she could spare him a moment out of her busy schedule.

“Granger,” he said, keeping his lips close to hers. “What are you doing on Tuesday? Fancy spending the day with me?”

She pulled back slightly, a thin line forming at the bridge of her nose.

“We could get out of the house,” Draco continued. “The grounds are safe enough. We could pack a lunch, go down to the lake and see if the boats are still any good. It’s not Hogsmeade, but you must be itching to get out of this house and go  _ somewhere. _ So. Tuesday. Something the matter, love?”

She was biting the inside of her cheek. “Draco.”

“Or is Tuesday a conflict, for some reason?” he said. “What, are you robbing a bank that day, or something?”

“Tonks told you.”

“She may have taken it upon herself to mention something to me. Why didn’t you?”

Hermione folded her arms. “Because I didn’t want to do this with you.”

“Do what?”

“The thing where you call me reckless or try to badger me into hiding, when you know perfectly well I intend to fight, when I can.”

“So you’re not going to tell me what your plans are at all.”

“All you’re going to do is get upset with me.”

“Try me.”

“Oh, for goodness’ sake.” She pursed her lips. “Yes. The Order is planning an operation to retrieve--certain materials--from a Gringotts vault.”

“The Black vault.”

“Yes.”

“How do you intend to get in?”

Her eyes slid away from him. “Harry, Ron, and I are going. There’s a goblin on the inside who will help us. Harry’s using the Cloak. Ron will handle keeping an exit clear for us and dealing with anyone who tries to follow us back to the vault. He’ll be disguised, of course.”

“And you?”

“I’ll get us in,” Hermione admitted reluctantly.

“How?”

“We’ve got a batch of Polyjuice. It seems to last longer in my body than the boys’, so it’s safest if I take it.”

Draco paused. “Come on, Granger, don’t make me drag all of this out of you. How many secrets have I told you by now? What’s it going to take for you to spit it out?”

“Fine. I don’t know how they got it, but we’ve got hair from Bellatrix Lestrange. That’s what’s going in the potion.”

Draco’s face twisted into a frown. “Absolutely not.”

“I’m sorry?”

“There’s no way in blazes you’re breaking into Gringotts impersonating my aunt.”

“This is why I didn’t tell you, Draco. This really isn’t your call to make.”

“You’re going to get killed,” Draco said. “You cannot possibly, plausibly imitate Bellatrix. She’s completely deranged. Anyone will know something’s wrong. You’ve never even met her. How do you expect to act like her?”

Hermione jutted her chin out. “I could act a bit more like you, for starters. I’ve got a front-row seat to what it looks like to go round giving out orders.”

“Yeah, you’re all about orders now, aren’t you? You’ll jump wherever the Order tells you like a good little soldier?” 

“They wouldn’t ask me to take on a mission for them if they didn’t think I had the best chance possible to succeed.”

Draco wondered how long Potter had spent in the Supply closet. How many other times he’d withdrawn to some quiet space. “I wouldn’t be so sure. They care about the Wizarding world, Granger, not just you.” He took a deep breath. “Dumbledore knew students were in danger because of me. He didn’t say anything. It would have given too much away, so he let people get hurt. Don’t you think the Order will do the same?”

“Do you have a better idea, then?” 

“I want you to think before you plunge into some harebrained scheme.”

“How is it not clear to you by now that I  _ do  _ think, and what I think is that working for the Order is the best way I can be useful in this war? Just because I don’t come to the same decision as you doesn’t mean I’m not using my head. Have you considered that maybe you could stand to do a little more thinking yourself? You’re not in the bloody woods anymore, Draco, but you’re still hiding and scrounging. Maybe it’s time for you to damn well step up.”

“Fine!” Draco got to his feet. “Fine. I’ll bloody well do it, then.”

“What?”

“You don’t care if you die. Potter, either, or Weasley, I’m assuming. Tonks is the only one in this house talking any bloody sense after all.”

“What did she say to you?”

“You’ve made yourself clear, Granger, all right? You’re the Order’s Head Girl, and you’ll go where they tell you. And you’re--” He cut himself short. She knew what she was. She had to, by now. “Not Bellatrix,” he said instead. “So I’m coming with you.”

“She asked you to come on the mission with us? What are you planning to do?”

“I’m Draco Malfoy. Son of Narcissa Malfoy-Black,” he said. “I’m going to go claim my key to my vault.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Had a few pieces I needed to move into place! Gringotts is coming up, promise.
> 
> When I put Draco in DA way back when, I felt that, prickly as he may have been to some at Hogwarts, there'd be plenty of people who didn't know enough about him to have an opinion. We saw student opinions on Harry shift back and forth, after all, and he's way more famous than Draco. If we see HP canon through Harry's bias, and Draco certainly would be happy to inflate his own importance, it might be truer to life that our favorite blond, slick-haired villain was a smaller fish in a bigger pond than he'd like everyone to think.
> 
> Makes it kind of fun now that he's done something big enough to put him on the political map for real, that gives him that infamous reputation he always thought he wanted.


	49. Gringotts

“This is stupid and I hate it,” Draco announced, standing in the wine cellar with the Golden Trio.

“Shut up,” Hermione said, fussing with the draping of Harry’s Invisibility Cloak. “You’ll do fine. Just do it like we practiced. Harry, move your foot. Other one. You’re standing on the hem.”

Lupin was on Draco’s other side, scrutinizing the set of robes Draco had borrowed from Theo.

“I’m still not certain about the fit,” he muttered.

“What would you know about it?” Draco snarled, more out of nervousness than real anger. “You’re shabby enough.”

“Live in ill-fitting clothes long enough, and you’re an expert on where to look for poor tailoring,” Lupin said mildly. “Hold still.”

Draco couldn’t help leaning away as the werewolf reached for him.

“Draco Malfoy,” Tonks’ voice rang out from above them. “I can tell from here that sleeve isn’t hanging right. Stop your fidgeting and let Remus fix it before you disgrace the family.”

Harry snickered from beneath the Cloak. “Getting chummy with Tonks, aren’t you, Malfoy?” 

“Stuff it, Potter,” Draco said, managing to hold his arm out and let Lupin cast a charm to adjust a seam. “That goes for you as well,” he shouted up at Tonks.

She made a rude gesture and grinned at him.

“Remember, keep focused on the mission,” Hermione said, for the umpteenth time that morning. “Get in, get what we need, get out. Act like you belong.”

“Very well for you to say, you’re under that mangy cloak the whole time,” Draco grumbled.

Granger patted her pocket. “I’ve got the potion. I’m still game to take it.”

“If he’s going to do it, it’s best if he appears to be alone,” Lupin said. “We want him to seem as dangerous as possible. If Bellatrix plays chaperone, he won’t be as intimidating.”

“If I get out there and one person looks like trouble,” Draco warned.

“We’ll be there the whole time,” Granger said. “I’ve got Harry, and Ron’s got you. If things go sideways, we come back here.”

“We’ll be watching closely for your return,” Lupin said. “Try to get in and complete the mission if at all possible. We’re not likely to get a second chance at this. If there’s serious trouble, though, then yes, get yourselves out.”

“How are you going to know it’s us?” Harry asked.

“Well. We won’t, exactly,” Lupin said apologetically. “I’ve done my best to make a map of this house, but it’s been a long time, and last time I wasn’t working on it alone. We can track how many people are in a room, but I wasn’t responsible for spells to determine identity. That was Wormtail, actually. He was so shrewd at telling who people were. I’ve never been able to understand why he’d--at any rate. Sirius made everything smooth, so it followed everyone as they moved. I can get the map to update every few minutes, but I don’t quite have his finesse. And James did the concealment and unlocking charms. Most of the better insults, too, although he and Sirius came up with a rather impressive list between them.” He smiled briefly at the memory. “The map will reliably track appearances in the cellar, so we’ll know as soon as you’re back.”

Draco looked up at the doorway. The walls at Nott Manor had been closing in fast. Even so, now that he was actually presented with a chance to go somewhere new, the idea of spending another tedious afternoon in his and Granger’s room, reading, held a renewed attraction.

The top of the spiral staircase was crowded with faces. Theo was near the front. He was more subdued than usual, his face paler. He gripped a scroll of paper in one hand, undoubtedly the map. His other hand held something else just as tightly, a stick of some kind. There was a glint of silver between his clenched fingers.

“Draco,” he called. “I found something for you. Hold on.”

He nudged forward and came down the stairs. At the bottom, he pressed the stick into Draco’s hand and stepped back, looking embarrassed. 

It was a walking stick, polished and elegant, of deep ebony, with a silver peacock’s head at the top. 

“Found it lying around,” Theo said. “Thought it looked familiar. Take it along, if you want.”

Draco knew it well. The peacock’s burnished gaze in his father’s hand had been at turns funny or frightening over the years, depending on how old he was at the time. He looked at the bird’s stern silver eyes, closed his hand over the head and felt the sharp tip of the beak poke between his fingers. He looked questioningly at Nott.

“I think it looks right,” Nott said. “Granger, what say you?”

She looked over her shoulder and did a small double take. “Oh, wow. Yes. Even your face, really. I thought this morning you might still be a bit thin? But you look...sharp.”

Lupin was filling Ron’s pockets with a variety of small packages. “What was the name you decided on?”

“Dragomir Despard,” Ron said. His face was transfigured almost beyond recognition with bristling stubble, a protruding brow, darkened hair, and a vivid scar slashing across his face. Hermione had attempted to transform his voice with a thick accent, based on her recollections of Krum, but Ron mainly sounded like he had marbles in his mouth.

“Better if you talk as little as possible,” Lupin said. “Now, this is darkness powder, this is Dizzyroot, here’s some double-strength Weasley’s Whizzbangers in case all you need is a simple distraction, and chocolate, of course. Just in case. You’ll act as associate and bodyguard, so Draco, it might make sense for you to order him about once you’re in Gringotts, just for the show of things.”

Draco grinned. “With pleasure.”

“Enough dillydallying,” Tonks shouted. “Remus, you granny, stop fussing with them and let them get on with it.”

“Malfoy’s right, you can stuff it,” Lupin called amiably. He stepped back. “Ready?”

“As we can be, I think,” said Harry. “Take hands, everyone. On three, then. One, two--”

The world spun, and then the coolness of the wind hit Draco’s cheeks. Chilly stones and narrow alleys tunneled the autumn air into a thinner, colder draft. He touched a wall. They were in a corridor behind a cauldron shop, steps away from the main stretch of Diagon Alley. He could hear the humdrum sound of shoppers making their way between errands.

It felt exposed and disorienting to be outside. Ron stuck his hands deep in his pockets and glared at Draco from under his heavy brow. Hermione and Harry were nowhere to be seen. Draco was grateful when Granger, unable as always to refrain from being bossy, prodded him from beneath the Cloak.

“Stand up straight!” she hissed. “Stop gawking like you’ve never been to Diagon Alley before.”

“I do not gawk,” Draco seethed. “Come on, Despard, let’s get this bloody errand over with.”

He stalked down the alley, the silver tip of the cane tapping the cobblestones. He thought he could sense a muffled swish of fabric as Granger kept near him under her invisible cover.

They hadn’t reached the main road before a dark figure exiting a neighboring shop stopped in surprise.

“You--aren’t you Lucius Malfoy’s boy?”

Bushy hair, graying prematurely from the stress of imprisonment. Long, sharp nose and cruel eyes. A name rose to the top of Draco’s memory.

“Travers,” he said coolly. 

“What a rare occasion to encounter you out for a stroll, lad,” Travers said, a conniving look on his face.

“I could say the same. What are you doing on the outside? I’d thought you were in Azkaban.”

“Not since beginning of summer,” Travers said. “The Dark Lord doesn’t leave his faithful behind.”

“He doesn’t,” Draco agreed.

“Imagine you not knowing about the break-out,” Travers continued. “I thought all the loyal Death Eaters played a part. Haven’t seen you at your father’s house, either. I seem to recall your parents renouncing their connection to any family who had displeased the Dark Lord.”

Draco swallowed. “As they should,” he managed to say, hoping Travers didn’t hear the strain in his voice. He couldn’t help asking. “Are they well?”

Travers took a few steps forward, and Draco realized he was now in grabbing range. 

“Haven’t seen them in some time, have you, young Master Malfoy? We haven’t been hiding, have we? Perhaps the Dark Lord would care to hear the reason behind your absence.”

Ron stepped closer to Draco, preparing to take his arm. Draco lifted his chin, a sudden rush of boldness giving him his voice again.

“I’ve been abroad at his behest. Hogwarts under Dumbledore was hardly the place to get a sufficient education,” Draco scoffed. “I spent the summer in Belarus.”

To Draco’s relief, Travers relaxed, mouth widening into a more genuine smile. “Belarus--that would be Durmstrang, correct? A fine institution. Much firmer entry standards than Hogwarts’ coddleslop about taking in anyone who can throw a few sparks. A stronger grounding in the more ancient arts, as well. So-called 'Dark’ magic has never been properly respected at Hogwarts.”

“Much more satisfying,” Draco said shortly. “If you will excuse me, I have business at Gringotts.”

“I’m headed that way myself,” Travers said. “I’ll accompany you. And your companion--?”

“Oh, this is Despard,” Draco said off-handedly. “He doesn’t speak much English. Good dueler, though. Mind like a chess board. He’s sympathetic to our aims, and I needed someone to handle various arrangements for me until it’s time for me to return to the Manor.” He gripped the peacock again and resumed a deliberate pace toward Gringotts.

He couldn’t talk with the others now that Travers was around. Travers seemed much more at ease now, making small talk and mocking the ones he referred to as “the wandless,” a category that included Muggles and disgraced witches and wizards alike. Draco concentrated on his posture, his gait, the scornful expression on his face that met any passerby’s stare with his unwavering certainty that Diagon Alley and all that existed in it was his to buy or sell.

Gringotts was the largest building on the street. Its snow-white marble remained untouched by any trace of city smoke or grime, a feat of protective goblin magic. Unlike every other time Draco had visited Gringotts before, the goblin guards at the door were replaced instead by wizards holding golden rods.

“Probity probes,” Travers sighed. “Inelegant, but necessary, while pockets of dissenters still exist.”

Draco’s stomach tightened, but the guards gave a little start as he and the concealed others passed. Potter or Granger must have cast some charm to confound the probes.

They swept into the main hall. Travers clearly wanted to stay near Draco, but Draco gave him as terse of a goodbye as he could manage within the bounds of Pureblood manners, and there was no polite way to insist on accompanying someone to the teller’s window. Travers slunk away, still casting the occasional glance over his shoulder at Draco.

He wasn’t the only one. Draco was conscious of multiple stares and whispers as he sauntered across the marble floor. Several people gaped outright. Others fell silent when he came near. He whipped his head toward a muffled sound of surprise, giving a pair of witches a vicious sneer, and was reassured to see them shrink back. Tonks seemed to know what she was talking about after all. Weasley didn’t have Draco’s swagger, but his surly glower seemed to do well enough, as well as the fact that he was nearly twice as broad as Draco. Especially with his features coarsened like this, he looked the part of hired muscle, and Draco felt a twinge of real relief at his presence a pace behind him.

“Master Malfoy!” The goblin at the window was evidently startled to see Draco. “My word. How can we be of service?”

Draco pinched his nose and upper lip into an aristocratic grimace and said, “I require the key to the Black vault.”

The goblin frowned. “Do you have identification?”

“You identified me yourself not a moment ago.”

“Do you have a senior account holder with you?” the goblin said. “Madam Malfoy-Black, perhaps, or Madam Lestrange?”

Draco heard Granger’s sharp intake of breath. They should have used everything at their disposal. Too late, now. It would look far too suspicious for Bellatrix to conveniently arrive moments from now.

“I’m not a child,” he said. “My mother, Narcissa Malfoy-Black, prepared documents for me years ago to go into effect once I came of age. That date has now elapsed.”

“Jointly held vaults do require an extra consideration of security, as I’m sure you can appreciate. It’s policy to enter a new authorized user in a senior’s presence.”

“I don’t give a rat’s toenail what your policy is,” Draco snapped. “You cannot seriously expect my entire family to rewrite their schedule for your convenience. My mother and aunt have their own responsibilities to fulfill. They are not at your disposal to summon as you see fit.”

“You must understand, it would be highly irregular to grant access, even to one well-known, without proceeding through the appropriate channels.”

“Is my name on your papers or not? Read it out,” Draco said. He muttered under his breath, “Father always told me you can’t trust a goblin to read unless you see its lips moving.”

The goblin’s eyes flicked down at the stack of parchment. “It is.”

“And seventeen is the age of vault inheritance?” Draco continued.

“For standard account ownership--” the goblin began.

“Then I fail to see the problem at hand,” Draco said. “Other than an appalling incompetency of service. I am here for my key, and I expect it without further delay.”

The goblin turned its mouth down. “You’d have to speak with my supervisor, and he’s busy for the rest of the day. Full agenda tomorrow, too.”

Draco drew himself up further. He didn’t need to fake his answering sneer, if this poxy tunnel-crawler thought he could dismiss a Malfoy. He lowered his voice, each word crisp and venomous.

“You will serve me this instant, or shall I bring the matter to  _ my  _ supervisor’s attention?” He flicked the button of his left cuff undone. “I doubt he’s inclined to look kindly on a witless runt interfering with the needs of the new Ministry.”

It was always difficult to read emotion on a goblin’s face, but the hesitation betrayed uncertainty, if not outright fear. Draco began to draw his sleeve up slowly, until the first glimpse of the twisting black snake became visible.

“Perhaps--” the goblin said. “For urgent matters of business--for such a long-established clientele, certain privileges might be extended--”

“Indeed.”

“If you would come with me, then,” the goblin said, and there was only a touch of irritation in its voice.  _ “Master Malfoy.  _ If you will forgive the inconvenience, I must insist that your associate remain in the lobby.”

Draco tossed Ron a withering look. “Why in Merlin’s name would I want him snooping around in my family’s vault? Find something to occupy your attention, Despard. And be ready when I return. I don’t want to catch you loafing again.”

“As you say, Malfoy,” came Ron’s sullen response.

“‘Master Malfoy’ will do, Despard,” Draco warned, and then decided to push his luck. “Or ‘my lord.’ Immediately, then, goblin. I have other matters to attend to today.”

“Very well,” said the goblin, and a key appeared in its long-fingered hand.

In the torchlit passageway to the carts, the goblin beckoned to another guard.

“We will require a set of Clankers for the Black vault,” he said. He held a hand out toward the cart, offering Draco a low bow, head tipped at a sardonic angle. “If the young sir cares to board, we will transport you there directly.”

Draco felt Granger grab his arm through the Invisibility Cloak as he prepared to climb into the rickety cart. They hadn’t thought this moment through. They’d have to board all together to prevent the cart’s swaying from giving his hidden companions away. 

Granger leaned hard on Draco, doing her best to use momentum to sync her movements with his, but Draco couldn’t haul her and Harry both along with him, and he tumbled into the cart with several additional suspicious thumps. Draco even caught a flash of Harry’s foot and ankle protruding from under the Cloak, before the limb was hastily snatched back out of sight.

“What’s going on?” one of the goblins said, and both of them closed in on the cart.

Draco held his breath, but then a strange, glazed expression clouded one goblin’s face, and it said, “All seems to be in order. Ready to proceed to the Black vault, no further assistance needed.”

“Yes,” the other said blankly. “I have customers waiting.” It turned on its heel and marched back toward the marble hall.

The cart started moving, and Harry and Hermione winked into view.

“Potter, what are you doing?” Draco hissed.

Potter’s eyes were wide. “I, er, have them under control,” he said.

“Did you  _ Imperio  _ the goblins?” 

Granger looked apprehensive, although there was a rebellious light in her eyes as well. “I think it’s only technically illegal to cast it on humans,” she said breathlessly. “The ethics are more complicated, but we really need to get into this vault--”

“Merlin’s dick.” Draco gripped the side of the cart as it began to pick up speed. “Sometimes I’m not sure if it’s more dangerous to be with you or against you.”

Hermione leaned forward, her hair streaming behind her. “Big drop up ahead,” she said. “Everyone, hold tight.”

The cart whizzed down a steep slope, careened through passages so narrow Draco could have touched the rocks on either side, if he dared put his hands out past the edge of the cart, and finally charged at a waterfall.

All three of them ducked, not that it saved them from being drenched. Hermione cried out when the water hit them, clutching at the pocket of her robe.

Draco shook water from his hair. “What is the meaning of this?” he shouted at the goblin.

Hermione managed to fling a vial out of her pocket onto the floor of the cart. “It felt like it was boiling,” she said. The liquid inside was discolored and frothy. “That was the Polyjuice. It’s ruined. There must have been an enchantment in the water.”

“The Thief’s Downfall.” The goblin’s eyes were sharp and clear again. “Burglars and imposters, you’d slip a ruse past the goblins of Gringotts? We’ll polish your bones in your vault til they shine.”

_ “Imperio,”  _ Potter said, pointing his wand at the goblin again. He looked up at the others. “We’re in too far. We need to see this through.”

“Can you keep control of it?” Draco said. “You have to mean those curses, or they won’t work.”

Harry’s face was steady. “I’m looking out for the four of us. I mean that well enough.”

The cart was slowing. There was another goblin waiting outside the vault, holding a heavy set of metal instruments. This goblin didn’t show any sign of surprise or alarm to see Potter and Granger in the cart along with Draco.

Potter took the lead when the cart stopped. “You’re Griphook? Lupin sent us. He told us you’d help us.”

Griphook eyed the three of them suspiciously. “I agreed to a bargain. Entry for a sword. Where is it?”

Potter patted his pocket.

“Do you take me for an imbecile?” the goblin said.

This time, Harry pulled out a few inches of fabric, revealing the bent point of the Sorting Hat. “I’ll get the sword after,” he said. “We’ve got work to do first.”

“That wasn’t the agreement,” Griphook said. 

“You can’t expect him to stroll into Gringotts swinging a sword around,” Hermione said. “It was hard enough getting Harry in unnoticed as it was. Be reasonable.”

Draco fought a smile. He knew plenty of Purebloods who couldn’t inject that much command into their tone. “You heard the lady. Open the vault.”

Griphook turned his beady eyes on Draco. “Just as you say.” He dragged the nails of one long-fingered hand over the door, producing a high sound that whistled just on the edge of hearing. Draco curled his lip, feeling the small hairs on his neck prickle, and then the door swung open.

The Black vault contained heaps of shining Galleons, of course, but after the first second or two, they weren’t what drew attention. Like the Malfoys, the Blacks had a long-held tradition of collecting artifacts. While the Malfoys took almost a magpie-like approach, acquiring anything they deemed sufficiently precious and rare, the Blacks’ area of interest was...more concentrated. 

An entire wall of the vault, stretching back almost out of view, was lined with grim talismans, skulls and dried parts of magical creatures, wicked weapons, stones with twisted metal settings that looked like they were meant to cage the jewels from escaping. A stack of leathery books, greasy with old oils and candle drippings, squatted like a desiccated gnome on the floor beside a pile of gold. Suits of magically warded armor, clearly from different armies and even eras, stood at disoriented angles. Draco wondered if some of them might not be empty.

“Where do we even start looking?” Hermione said.

Harry took out his wand. “Accio locket!”

Nothing happened. Griphook cackled.

“Not so simple as that. Vaults are protected against theft.”

“How do we find it, then?” Hermione said.

“That’s your business to settle, not mine.”

Hermione tossed her hair. “Fine. Let’s split the vault in thirds, then, or we’ll be here for ages. I’ll take the right side.”

“The locket’s about the size of a Snitch, right?” Potter said, almost more to himself than the others. “I can spot that against a crowd.”

Draco squared his shoulders, suddenly much more motivated to spot the Horcrux locket before Potter could find it. He’d seen the replica too, after all. He concentrated on the memory of the locket’s sickly yellow color and the gilded outline, and let the gray and black shades of most of the other Dark artifacts meld into the background. Potter was creeping purposefully down the length of the vault. Draco hung nearby. He felt more possessive of the contents of the vault than he’d expected, and he felt a certain level of irritation that Potter was so blatantly surveying what would, after all, ultimately be a large part of Draco’s inheritance.

“There!” 

And yes, of course Potter would be the one to get to claim triumph at locating the locket, too. He was pointing at one of the tallest shelves. There was a skull that would have looked human, except for the shape and quantity of the teeth, and the antlers. The locket’s chain looped over several prongs.

Harry jumped, arm outstretched, and missed. Draco wasn’t tall enough, either.

“What I wouldn’t give for a broom right now,” Harry said.

Draco saw a sliver of something shiny beneath a cobweb-gray cloth. A handle of some sort. The curve of it was distinctly familiar.

“Granger, does that look like part of the Hogwarts crest to you?”

She came over beside them and peered. “Definitely. What have they got up there?”

“We need a better look at it. And without magic, so we just need to be able to reach--” Harry cut off. “Malfoy, do you still have that stick? I bet I could hook the chain over the tip. Maybe get the covering off that other thing, too.”

“I’m taller,” said Draco. “I’ll get it myself.”

Harry rolled his eyes. “Do what you need to. Let’s be quick, though, we need to get back to the safe house.”

Draco had left his father's cane just inside the entrance to the vault. He retrieved it, noting the scowl on Griphook's face. Back with the others, he raised the walking stick as high as he could reach, delicately threading the tip through the chain of the locket. He poked the stick further, trying to catch the cloth covering the other object. This tilted the cane, and the freed locket slid down, into his hand.

The chain landed in the curve between his thumb and forefinger, searing where the metal links touched him. The locket landed on a gnarled scar at the base of his thumb, scorching him again. Draco shouted in pain and alarm, dancing in place to avoid the cascade of red-hot replica lockets that split off from the original, showering down at his feet.

His hand burned. A thousand memories of slicing pain flared into life, and Draco panicked. He stumbled backward from the shelf of Dark objects, stepping on a small pile of Galleons that began to ripple into a golden furnace of replicas, and then he fled from the vault.

A blast of hot air hit Draco’s face when he crossed the threshold out of the Black vault. Hot, and horribly moist.

Draco’s neck craned up, his eyes taking in a giant pair of eyes before him, milky with cataracts. The dragon’s bones protruded. It snuffled at the air, clearly more dependent on its nose than its eyes to survey its surroundings. Its scales were pale and flaking, and there were badly healing marks on its wings and forearms, left from the metal tools the goblins used to prod it where they wanted it to go. Even stunted and underfed, though, the dragon towered taller than a horse. Its claws could nearly circle Draco’s waist, and the teeth that showed were as long as his finger.

Draco flattened himself against the wall. That sank in fast, too. It was a rough stone wall, not a polished door anymore. In addition to the protective charms that doubled the contents of the vault and made them burn intruders, there was some spellwork on the exterior, as well. Exit the vault, and the doorway would be obscured, so thieves couldn’t find their way back in. There should have been open space behind Draco’s back, but it was perfectly solid.

He was trapped out here.

He didn’t dare yell. One of the dragon’s ears was torn, but that didn’t tell him anything about how well the beast could hear. Draco didn’t know if the dragon hadn’t noticed him or was biding its time, waiting to see if punishment was coming.

“Granger,” he hissed over his shoulder as loud as he could risk. “Granger! Hermione! Potter, for fuck’s sake--”

The dragon grunted. It opened its mouth in a croaking roar. Its head tilted, and the better eye, the one that still showed some filmy blue behind the cataract that partially blinded it, focused in on Draco. 

One forearm swung forward, startlingly fast. The bone of the knuckle caught Draco just under his breastbone, knocking the wind out of him and pinning him to the wall. Draco pushed at it uselessly, kicking and wriggling to stay away from the sharp hook of the claw.

“Granger!” he bellowed, no longer worried about volume. “Help! Aah--get off, get off--help me!”

The stone wall gave way behind him, and he collapsed backward into a river of burning metal, heat pulsing through his clothes. He scrabbled back away from the dragon with his hands and heels. 

“Griphook double-crossed us! It's a trap!” Hermione shouted behind him. 

Potter yelled, “Grab on!”

Draco caught a glimpse of the wooden cart through the space between the dragon’s legs. He flipped himself onto his hands and knees, coins blistering his skin, and crawled. There was commotion and shouting behind him. Something caught at the back of his robes. He didn’t know whether it was Hermione’s hand or the dragon’s claw. He yanked himself free and reached for the edge of the cart.

Inside, he spun, looking for a way to control the cart. His hands were shaking almost too badly to pull out his wand. 

“Draco!” Hermione sounded panicked, too.

He looked up. His heart dropped. Impossibly, Hermione and Harry were both sitting  _ on top of the dragon, _ straddling its serpentine neck. The dragon was bucking and rearing, stretching its wings. Coming at him.

“Move!” Hermione shouted. “Draco, move the damn cart!”

“Propero!” Draco yelled, pointing his wand.

The cart’s wheels felt like they were wading through syrup. It was built for goblin magic, not wand spells. Draco intensified the charm, achieving rattling motion as the dragon launched, its head scraping the stone wall.

Hermione’s face was white. She blasted magic toward Draco’s cart, too, and her spell joined with his to push him down the track a little faster. Then she gestured at the walls of the cave. “Reducto!”

Boulders the size of Draco’s head came pounding down around him.

“Granger, what the fuck?” he yelled, crouching in the uncovered cart. Then he realized the dragon was trying to fly in earnest. Hermione and Harry needed it to. If it stopped, and threw them off, they were as good as dead. Hermione was clearing a path for it, buying her and Harry time.

His job, if he wanted to survive, was to stay ahead of both the dragon and the cascading rocks.

“Propero,” he yelled again, racking his mind for any speed charms he knew. “Propulso, velocita maxima!”

The rickety cart was gaining speed, but so was the dragon. It roared again in indignation, rage, and maybe even pain at the strain on its weakened wings. It exhaled flame. Not the fireball of a healthy dragon, of course, or Draco wouldn’t stand a chance. Enough to leave sooty streaks on the stones, though. Draco clung to the far side of the cart, ducking as reverberations of the Reductor Charm shook more stones loose. 

A circle of white light was widening at the end of the tunnel. Draco cast wild glances between the raging dragon behind him and the entrance to Gringott’s main hall, where people still milled about in business clothing. He needed to be far enough ahead of the dragon to get out.

Not enough time. Draco turned around and cast a  _ Reducto  _ of his own at the back of the cart, letting the burst of energy thrust him backwards, out of the cart and onto the slick marble floor. The dragon erupted into the hall just behind him, as he was pushing himself to his feet, starting to run before his fingertips left the ground. 

He couldn’t remember the code name. “Ron!” he shouted, sprinting. No one else was going to hear him, anyway. The hall was instant pandemonium as people leaped behind counters and ran for the Floo.

“Jump!” Potter shouted.

“I can’t!” Granger yelled.

Draco was still running, hot breath behind him, mind too flooded with panic to think about anything besides forward motion.

Ron grabbed him. They Apparated with a violent lurch. For a horrible second, there was a stretching, tearing sensation, and in the weird split-time of Apparating, Draco had a flash of fear that something had gone wrong. Then there was a sort of internal twang as the magic snapped back into place. It wasn’t pleasant, but a moment later there was the relief of the solid ground of the wine cellar.

Draco didn’t let go of Ron’s arm just yet. His head was spinning. His whole body felt singed. He looked around, terrified that the dragon’s talons had closed around them at the last second, and maybe it was down here with them.

The door above the spiral staircase burst open. Lupin, Tonks, and Moody led, wands out.

“Why’re there two of you?” Moody barked. “Where’s the others?”

“Expelliarmus,” Tonks said, catching both Draco and Ron’s wands neatly as they spun up toward her.

Draco scanned the empty room. With a dizzying pop, Hermione stumbled into view, dragging Harry next to her. The concerned expression on her face mirrored what Draco felt on his, and then she saw him.

“Sweet Godric,” she said, staggering toward him and Ron. Her head landed on Draco’s shoulder. One arm was around him, and the other reached toward Ron. “Are you okay? Oh my God, I thought we were going to die.”

“Revelio!” Moody said, aiming his wand at the four of them. The enchantments melted off Ron’s face, restoring the ginger hair and the freckles. The rest of them were unchanged.

“It’s them,” Moody said. “Remus, you can let Nott in before he walks a trench into that hallway.”

Lupin poked his head back through the doorway. “They’re back, everyone,” he said, and immediately Theo and Hannah pushed through, followed closely by Ginny and a dozen others staying in the house. They cheered when they saw the four of them, singed but standing.

Hermione’s adrenaline was swinging away from terror. “Holy shit, look at my hands. They’re shaking. Oh my God, that was unbelievable.” She put her hands on Draco’s chest. “And you! I can’t remember the last time I’ve seen you that cocky,” she said warmly. 

Draco let out a breath, dispelling some of the shakiness. “I’m not about to be pushed around by a goblin.”

“Not in the slightest. God, you were such a perfect asshole,” she said, and pulled his neck down toward her to kiss him.

He moved his hands down the scoop of her waist, enjoying the kiss, and pulled her closer to him. She pressed into him, dipping back so he had to put his arms all the way around her to keep her from falling. 

When he righted her again, she plucked something near her hip. “There’s a scale hanging out of my  _ pocket, _ Harry, look.”

Harry grinned. “We might not have been as stealthy as we planned,” he shouted at Moody and Lupin. “Unexpected dragon. We had to improvise. And, er, make our own door back out.”

“Were you successful?” Tonks asked. 

Harry raised a hand, flashing golden links between his fingers.

Tonks whooped, prompting another cheer from the rest of the crowd.

“How do you know it’s the real one?” Draco whispered to Hermione.

“It stayed looped over the walking stick,” she whispered back. “The rest were scattered all over the floor. And that’s not all.” She raised her voice to reach the Order members. “We’ve got two of them.”

“You found something else in there?” Lupin said.

“Draco spotted it,” Hermione said. “A cup. You should check it right away, but I think it’s the one we need.”

Moody’s eye swiveled in surprise. “Let’s get to it, then. No time to waste,” he barked. “Good work, the lot of you.”

Draco looked at the collected group. Difficult to say for sure, of course. This was a particularly high-spirited moment. It would be crass for anyone to spurn him now. The real test would come in the following days, if anyone seemed more likely to accept him. Still, enjoy the moment while he had it. Right now, with Granger’s hand warm in his and people smiling down at him, or at least at the company he was standing part of, it seemed like things might be changing for the better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Much as I love Hermione disguised as Bellatrix, I had a ton of fun imagining Draco returning to his snobby Pureblood roots. Overall I adore this caper from canon, so I really just wanted to play it straight, with some Malfoy thrown in for flavor (and a few other details changed to serve this timeline's plot). One character piece I'm trying to keep in mind is that Draco has never been brave enough to roll with the Golden Trio, so I'm aiming for less Sudden OOC Action Hero Draco and more the Boy Who Loses His Cool When the Shit Hits the Fan. I am ultimately interested in nudging him toward whatever level of bravery he's capable of (again, keeping in mind that he's no Harry or Hermione), but Rome wasn't built in a day.


	50. Birthday

Hermione had thought the Gringotts mission would kick off a whirl of activity. To her, it had meant the start of her part in the war. She’d expected more tasks to follow, or for the Order to reveal the next part of their strategy, but all she was getting was a lot of vague nonsense about “confirming intelligence reports” and putting Order sympathizers through a basic “weapons and warding” or W&W magic program, none of which happened at the manor. Hermione volunteered to be part of any mission needing assistance, but nothing yet. Moody had laughed at her for chafing, saying that a well-operated safe house was supposed to be quiet and boring.

Ginny heard Hermione out politely, and then matter-of-factly turned down her offer to accompany Ginny on her own missions. 

“I know your parents are Muggles, but you were, like, ten,” she said. “No offense, but I don’t see what you’d know about travel planning that I don’t, and extra people only make us more conspicuous.”

Despite promising herself many times in the woods over the summer that she’d never venture into nature again, Hermione toured every inch of the grounds. Nott Manor wasn’t exactly close to other points of interest, so there wasn’t much point in trying to sneak out. She was almost at the point of naming distinctively-shaped trees.

“You’re pacing,” Draco said, one afternoon. They were in the solarium, where they could at least watch the trees blow around in the gusty rain.

“I am not.”

“Wow, really? You’re going to try to lie to me about that?” He reached out and caught her sleeve as she circled back his way again. “What’s bothering you?”

“Where should I start?” Hermione grumbled. “We either don’t have any information on what You-Know-Who is planning, or the Order doesn’t want to tell us. We don’t have a plan to get the last Horcruxes. I can tell you the wallpaper pattern in every room in the manor. I haven’t had anything more urgent to do than offer cake suggestions for Theo’s birthday party.”

“You did rob Gringotts.”

“Yeah, two weeks ago.”

Draco started laughing. “You are impossible. ‘Oh, that. I robbed a bank  _ one time,’”  _ he said, in an impatient, prissy voice that made Hermione stick her tongue out at him. “I’ll tell you why you’re out of sorts. It’s September, and you’re still here. You miss Hogwarts. You miss having schoolwork.”

“Maybe,” Hermione admitted. “Yes. Is that hopelessly nerdy?”

“Yes.” 

Hermione waited for him to continue, then folded her arms at him when he sat there in smug silence, his eyes dancing with amusement.

“And may I ask how it is that you’re apparently so content to lounge around for weeks on end with nothing to do?”

She’d meant it rhetorically, but Draco tipped his head thoughtfully in consideration. 

“There’s the difference of how last year was for me than for you, of course,” he said. “I’m more ready to take a quiet stretch as a sign that nothing’s going wrong. You get bored faster. You’d also expected to go back to Hogwarts for seventh year, and I’ve known for much longer that it wouldn’t be possible for me. Although that doesn’t mean I don’t miss it, too,” he added.

“Like what?” Hermione said, feeling a fresh pang of homesickness. “What do you think you’d be doing, if we were there?”

“I would have gotten to take Apparation this year. That would have been cool. Other than that? Probably not Charms. Potions, though, I’ve always liked that class. And Transfiguration, maybe.”

Hermione looked surprised. “You hate McGonagall.”

“Potter said Sirius taught himself to be an Animagus while he was still in school. I’d like to be able to do that,” Draco said. “I miss my friends. I suppose at this point, I mainly miss having friends.”

“Has it been better, lately?”

Draco rolled his eyes. “Not really. Hannah’s not as twitchy when I walk into the room, and no one’s openly attempted to attack me in the last week, so, you know. Baby steps.”

“You’ve got Theo, at least.”

“And thank Merlin for that.” He looped an arm through hers. “Come on. The party isn’t for another twenty minutes, and I’m done sitting around, too. Let’s go.”

“Go where?” Hermione said.

He patted her hand with an air of breezy confidence. “Try not to overthink everything,” he said expansively. “Quiet your mind. Let your feet carry you. There’s bound to be something interesting going on somewhere.”

“We could see if anything needs doing in the Owlery, I suppose,” Hermione said dubiously. “Hedwig's molting, so we've been taking turns keeping her feathers clean.”

“Not precisely what I had in mind,” Draco said. He was leading them generally toward the great room, the only space besides the ballroom large enough to accommodate everyone in the house at once, but they were taking the longer way to get there.

“So the Order isn’t working on much lately, then?” Draco said.

Hermione let her hand trail down his arm until she could lace their fingers together. “I’m not sure how much of that I’m supposed to share with people besides Harry and Ron. It slipped out. Don’t spread things around?”

“What’s the point of insider privilege if the occasional things I hear from you become common knowledge?” He looked at her out of the corner of his eye. “I know something I imagine you don’t, too. Did Potter tell you Lupin’s trying to get us to take lessons from him, together?”

“No. Why? What does he want you to do?”

“Be frustratingly better than Potter at Occlumency, I think,” Draco said. “Lupin seems to think he’s more motivated to study when he’s got someone to beat.”

Hermione smiled. “There might be something to that. But then what’s in it for you? You’re not going to say yes just to do Harry a favor.”

“You think more like a Slytherin all the time. I’m very proud of you, you know,” Draco commented. “I’m not averse to the idea of keeping up with practicing Occlumency, myself. Especially if the Death Eaters get more active and  _ he _ tries to call me. Lupin’s said he can teach us things to do with our Patronuses, too, and some of it sounds interesting.”

“I have known for a while that I wouldn’t be back at Hogwarts this year, either, you know,” Hermione said. “Harry’s been getting more involved in all of this for years. He’s had private lessons with professors to learn things like Occlumency, and meetings with Dumbledore. You weren’t the only one with a mission, last year. Harry had to get information for Dumbledore, to learn more about You-Know-Who’s plans and weaknesses. It got clearer all year that Harry was going to have to do something serious, which meant Ron and I would have to go with him.

“I’ll admit, I don’t envy the bastard.”

“I just thought we’d be doing more, by now,” Hermione grumbled.

“You want more? I’ll give you more.” He tugged her into a dumbwaiter, the glass doors smoky with age, and kissed her.

Hermione was pleasantly sandwiched between a wall at her back and a firm chest pressing against her front. Draco kissed her again, more insistently, and she opened her mouth for him and snuck in a quick gasp in the sliver of distance between them.

“You make that sound on purpose,” he said. “You like knowing what I like.”

“I don’t have any idea what you’re talking about,” Hermione said. She ran her nails down a ticklish line at the back of his neck, and was rewarded by a shiver and the tightening of his hands at the small of her back. When the next break in kissing happened, she let out a little “oh” of a sigh.

He shook his head at her. “Don’t think I don’t know what you’re doing. Two can play that game.”

His hands dipped under her shirt, tracing her stomach. He played with the band of her bra, and she arched her back to press her chest against him. Her top fit too snug for him to move his hands higher easily, so he took them away and started undoing the buttons.

“This is ridiculous,” Hermione whispered. “Someone could come through the hall any minute.”

Draco shifted his lips to her jawline. His tongue flicked against her pulse. “You’ve been pacing every blasted hallway in this place like a trapped animal. So let’s make sure you won’t see this one the same way again.”

“We’re supposed to do the birthday thing in a few minutes.”

“So?” He sucked harder where her neck met her collarbone and skimmed his thumbs along the top edge of the bra peeking out of her shirt. “We’ll be late. We could even be conspicuously late, if you want.”

Hermione arched an eyebrow and draped her arms around his neck. “Are you seriously trying to talk me into hallway sex?”

“You can’t go on a life-threatening mission every time you have too much pent-up energy,” Draco said. He took her by the wrist and held her hand against the wall, over her head. 

Hermione relented. “There isn’t much point in only pinning one hand.”

“I want to see what you’ll do with the other one. Besides,” Draco said. “You’re being exasperating and requiring convincing, so I need a spare hand to do this.” He slipped his hand inside her bra.

Surprising, how different his hand could feel against her here. They’d reached for each other so many times by now. He’d had the time to refine his technique with her, learning the patterns of squeezing and flicking and stroking that she loved, but she would have thought even something good could eventually get dull. Her body only seemed to get more responsive to him over time, and the idea that they couldn’t know how long they’d be alone here charged each touch with new energy. He toyed with her, skirting around her nipple with his fingers before suddenly bending to brush his lips against her, and she let out a cry of surprise and pleasure.

He nipped her, just below the ear, in the sensitive hollow on the side of her neck. “The whole point,” he said, “is to keep quiet, so you don’t get caught. Unless you’re trying to get me to stop?” He took his fingers off of her, barely, still brushing fingertips against her skin, teasingly close but much too far from where they ought to be.

She wiggled. He moved his hand again, keeping the distance. “I didn’t say that.”

He smiled and shook his head when she tried to wriggle closer to him again. “No, you chose the hard way. This is what happens when you interrupt me.”

He unbuttoned her trousers this time, stroking and grinding against her underwear and steadfastly resisting her whispered instructions.

“Be patient. I will get ‘a little to the right’ when I am good and ready.”

When he finally got around to pushing her underwear aside and moving his fingers against and inside her, she had to bite back the sound of a jittery orgasm almost immediately.

Draco frowned. “No, that’s not good enough at all,” he said. He shimmied her trousers and underwear down and braced her hips with his hands. “If we’re going to do this out here, we’re going to do it properly.”

And there was his tongue, soft and slow, smoothing out the jumpiness of overexcited nerves. Hermione put her hands on his hair and let out a long breath, trying to get her heart rate back under control. She thought she was too fried out, but he could at least catch some afterwaves. But no, there was definitely something new coming into shape, a lower, steadier beat than the tingling flash of the first one. She was starting to move her hips by instinct, riding him toward the exact angle or rocking to say just a little faster, just a little more, keep the pressure like that, yes  _ there, _ oh god, do that, don’t you dare stop doing that for the rest of your goddamn life--

“Fu-uck,” Hermione groaned, a sort of strangled hiccup cutting the word.

Draco got up, glanced furtively through the glass, unzipped his own pants. “Can I have a go?”

Hermione rolled her head back against the wall. “You can do whatever you bloody want with me right now.”

“I had one or two things in mind,” he said, leaning in to kiss her again.

About a quarter of an hour later, they were finally presentable enough (Hermione hoped) to stroll into the great room. Hermione felt a flicker of annoyed admiration at how poised Draco looked. She still felt wobbly on her feet, and she could only hope she was managing to conjure a natural facial expression.

Theo waved at Draco. “So you managed not to forget after all,” he said cheerily.

“Forget what?”

“Ha ha. Grab a drink and come on. We’re playing Dragon’s Eye, five Sickles a round. I’ll deal you in.”

“Hermione, give me a hand with a kindling charm?” Hannah said, beckoning Hermione toward the kitchen. She nudged Hermione once she was alongside her and whispered, “You might like to fix your top, while we're back here. The buttons aren't even.”

Hermione flushed. “Oops.”

“It's not obvious,” Hannah hurried to say. “I noticed Draco first. His hair is just a bit mussed, so I checked you. I don't think anyone else saw.”

Hermione unbuttoned her shirt and started to redo it. Ginny came in while she was still adjusting and nodded.

“Nice. Gross, on principle, considering the guy, but there's a war on.” She popped a slice of apple in her mouth and grabbed the tray of sliced fruit and cheese. “Get yours, Granger.”

When Hermione rejoined the rest of the party, she noticed there were fewer people sitting at the table with Theo than before. Plenty of games worked so players could drop in and out for a few rounds at a time, of course, but Draco caught her eye from his spot next to Theo and drummed his fingers on the table. Hermione wrinkled her nose sympathetically. She’d guessed as much.

Notably, Harry had joined the game, and was sitting across from Draco. Hermione found Ron in the final stages of a chess match with Terry and tapped him on the shoulder.

“Harry and I are over there. Do you want to come play?”

Ron looked where she pointed. “Um. Yeah. Give me a minute, and I’ll be over.”

“Malfoy’s gone and ruined a perfectly good time, looks like,” Terry said. “Why’s Potter sitting at his table?”

Ron moved his queen and delicately captured a knight. “They’ve just done a heist together. I figure Harry can stomach a card game, after that. That’s mate, if I’m not mistaken.”

Terry’s finger hovered over his king as he eyed the board. “I’m still trying to work out how you do that. I never see it coming. Bugger. Well, good match at least.” He tipped his king, and Ron stood up from the chess table.

“Happy birthday,” Hermione told Theo as she slid into her seat.

He tipped a glass at her. “And same to you, birthday girl.”

“Thanks. It’s next week. Who told you?”

Theo looked quizzically at Harry. “Fuck. I’ve spoiled a surprise, I think.”

“You didn’t think we were going to let your birthday go by without doing anything to celebrate you, too, did you, Hermione?” Ron said.

“It’s not even my birthday yet!”

“It’s close enough,” Harry said. “Besides, there’s no way we could have surprised you on the day without you working it out.”

Hermione smacked Draco’s arm. “You had me be late to my own party?”

“They needed time to set up,” Draco protested.

“We enchanted a banner and everything,” Theo said. “Hannah’s going to kill me.”

“I’ve never seen Hannah get angry at anyone, for any reason,” Draco said.

“Well, no. She might admit to being mildly disappointed. That’s basically wrath. I better let her know the imp’s out of its cage.” 

“What’s going on?” Hannah said, settling into the chair on Theo’s other side.

He touched her arm. “I messed up. I’m really sorry.”

Hannah’s eyes widened. “What happened? Is everyone okay?”

“Everyone’s fine,” Ron said. “Theo let it slip to Hermione that it’s her party, too.”

“That’s all? Theo, why did you scare me like that?”

“I thought you’d be upset that you didn’t get to see her face, or something. Do the big reveal.”

“Were you surprised?” Hannah asked Hermione.

“Yes! I mean--yes. I’m still surprised.”

“Then it’s all worked out the way it should,” Hannah said. 

“You’re sure?” Theo said.

“Of course I am. It’s your birthday, love. We should be celebrating.”

There was indeed an enchanted banner, with both Theo and Hermione’s names on it, that unfurled itself with a flourish of trumpet music when Hannah brought out the cake. The party was set up open-house style (“fittingly enough,” Theo said), and just about everyone in the house came down at one point or another to grab a plate, play some games, and wish the master of the house and resident heroine the best.

It was difficult for anyone in the safe house to get out and shop for gifts, of course, but they made do. Ginny brought Muggle sweets for both Theo and Hermione. Hannah had knitted Theo a jumper, and a soft pair of wrist-warmers for Hermione in burgundy and gold.

“I didn’t have time to do fingers,” she said.

“I’m amazed you had time to make me anything at all, Hannah. They’re perfect.”

Ron gave Hermione the chess set he’d whittled in the woods. Harry gave her a book he’d asked Ginny to buy on one of her excursions into Muggle towns. And Draco handed her a piece of thick, creamy paper, folded into its own envelope. She unfolded it to find a black-and-white sketch of hydrangeas and Queen Anne’s lace.

Hermione held it up to admire it. “You’ve gotten really good. You’ve always had an eye for detail, but I don’t remember you drawing like this.”

“I drew a lot of plants over the summer,” Draco said. “Touch it.”

Hermione put her finger over the hydrangeas on the page, and the blossoms flushed pink and rich purple where she touched them. “Oh, that’s gorgeous. I’m going to make you show me how you did this, later.”

Draco smiled. “Of course you are.”

It was only because Hermione was next to Draco so much of the time and watching Hannah fairly closely that she noticed the work Hannah was doing to nudge people into little groups, guiding certain people away and inviting others toward Hermione and Draco, like a buffer.

There was one moment, in the thick of the party, where Hermione realized she’d lost track of Draco after he’d excused himself, and went to find him. He was on a tufted bench by the doorway, looking over the clusters of people around the room.

When she put her head on his shoulder, he leaned back on her, resting his cheek on her head.

“Hey sweetheart,” she murmured. “You having a good time?”

“Hm? Of course.”

Hermione knew that tone. “I like spending time with you, in any case.”

He hugged her closer for a moment. “Happy birthday.” He straightened. “Come on. They’re setting up a trivia game, looks like. Let’s go beat everyone.”

“They’ll never see us coming,” Hermione said, and they went back together to rejoin the party.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So there was an unplanned delay getting this chapter out. There was a family emergency, and while everything should work out okay, it was a really difficult and scary week.
> 
> Draco and Hermione don't get together in this story until well after Hermione's 17th birthday, and things were too tense and weird for them to do anything for Draco's, and I couldn't let another birthday go by without some celebration! I enjoyed putting some thought into the gifts.
> 
> Be safe and well, and if all goes as planned we'll be here as usual next Friday.


	51. Spill

Hermione was sipping a mug of cocoa late one evening in the first week of October, keeping Hannah company as she sketched out meal plans and grocery lists, when Theo came in and put a hand on Hannah's shoulder.

“I think there's been a spill in the cellar.”

Hannah went white and pushed back her chair. “Do we have everything we need?”

“I don’t know, I haven’t checked on them yet. The early signs don’t look ideal, but I wanted to get you first before I looked in.”

“Is the fresh batch of dittany ready?”

Theo sucked in his bottom lip. “Almost? Almost-ish. Like I said, this could be a false alarm. Maybe they’re just slow, or resting.”

“What’s going on?” Hermione said, following both of them out of the kitchen.

“Someone’s hurt,” Hannah said. “Or at least they’re not moving much, on the map. How much longer on the batch? I thought you brewed it last night.”

“I got caught up with other stuff,” Theo said. “I started it around lunchtime.”

“Oh, Theo, I wish you’d remembered,” Hannah said. “Well, we’ll have to make do as best as we can. I wish Tonks and Lupin were here.” The couple were visiting at Andromeda’s safe house. Moody was trawling through various spots in Diagon Alley, Knockturn Alley, and a few other busy areas near Ministry headquarters, gathering information.

“Is there anything I can do to help?” Hermione asked. “I packed some dittany in my camping bag. It’s probably still good.”

“That would be wonderful,” Hannah said.

“Just stick around for a minute first?” Theo said. “An extra set of hands might be helpful, and then we can send you for whatever we need.”

They reached the door to the cellar. Theo tapped the door with his wand, muttering a spell to amplify his voice on the other side.

“Hello! Nott here. Who’s all in there? Are you okay?”

Silence. Theo opened the map, frowning at the dots representing people. “See, Han, these three are the ones I’m worried about, this little cluster here. I don’t think they’ve budged since Apparating in.” He called through the door again. “Anyone able to speak for the group? We need your names and wands, if at all possible, and then we’ll get you inside and looked after--”

There was pounding on the other side of the door. “We need help! Why won’t you open the door?”

“Hey! Who am I talking to?” Theo said.

“Sophie Roper! Open the bloody door!”

Hannah looked at Theo. “Sweetheart, I think we need to get in there. She sounds terrified.”

Theo sighed. “Yeah. Stay behind me, though, okay?”

He cracked open the door, stuck the tip of his wand through the opening, and said, “Petrificus totalus!”

There was a thud.

Theo pushed the door the rest of the way open. “Sorry,” he said to the figure at his feet, and hurried down the stairs.

Hannah crouched by the girl, her lips pressed tightly together. She gently twisted the wand free from the girl’s stiff hand and passed it wordlessly to Hermione, then undid the spell.

Sophie scrambled into a sitting position, gasping. “What the bloody hell was that? What’s going on? My wand--”

“I’m so sorry,” Hannah said. “You really are safe here, I promise. Can I help you up?” 

“It’s a safety thing,” Hermione said in an even voice. “They collect wands at first until they check everyone out. Hannah, I’m guessing this is what happens if they don’t hand wands over?”

“It’s not my idea,” Hannah said firmly.

“Well, obviously.”

“Not Theo’s, either. Moody insisted. He’s told Theo so many horror stories, he’s ready to go along with these kinds of measures--” She shook her head. “Sophie, I’m so sorry, let’s get you inside.”

Sophie said, “We need to get the others,” at the same time that Theo’s shout came from beneath.

“Hannah, Hermione, can you get down here please? Now?”

They ran, and found a pale Theo pressing his hands hard against a red mess of cloth on a prone figure’s stomach.

“Granger, we’re going to need that dittany. Immediately. And anything else you’ve got, just bring the whole pack.”

Hermione barely knew where to look first. A middle-aged woman was sitting slumped against a shelf. Her teeth were chattering, and her eyes kept falling shut. Even so, she had her good arm clamped around a boy who looked perhaps a year too young for Hogwarts. The boy was bleeding from a deep cut at his hairline. As Hermione watched, he belched, almost lazily, and a torrent of dark red sludge came out of his mouth.

Hannah knelt by their side. “They’ve been cursed. And she’s splinched herself, too, probably from Apparating all of them at once.”

“I’ll be right back,” Hermione said.

Hannah looked up at her. “Bring Draco with you. He might be able to help.”

Hermione nodded, and ran.

Draco was not in their bedroom when she grabbed the pack with her stash of medicinal potions. He was in the first place she (rather optimistically) checked, in fact, in the great room where they’d had the party. As usual, a dozen people, maybe a few more, were hanging out in various parts of the common room. Draco was sitting at a small table with Harry, Ron, and Ginny, playing some sort of game with a stack of Chocolate Frogs cards.

It was much more of an awkward than congenial tableau, to be fair. Even in her hurry, Hermione noted Draco’s stiffness, Ginny’s sour face, Harry’s self-conscious expression, and the way Ron’s body angled away from Draco. Harry must have been the one to invite Draco into the group. Hermione was surprised he’d agreed to it.

“Draco,” Hermione said. “Come quick. You’re needed downstairs.”

“I am?”

“What’s wrong?” Harry said.

“Some people are hurt,” Hermione said, keeping her voice down. “No, Harry, you’d better stay there. I don’t want everyone to rush after you and make a commotion. Keep people in here. Draco?”

He stood and kissed her briefly on the lips. “Look natural, then?” he murmured by her cheek.

“Okay. But quickly.”

Draco put an arm around her shoulders and walked her out of the room, at a pace that felt agonizingly slow. Hermione was grateful when they made it into the hall and she could run again.

“A group just Apparated in. It looks like they’ve been attacked. Hannah asked for you.”

“The resident Dark magic expert?”

“Basically, yes. You and me both, honestly. We’re still the best at multi-person counters.” 

She pushed open the cellar door, and they hurried down the stairs. Sophie was back with the others now, helping Theo. Hannah reached for the bag in Hermione’s hand immediately.

“You might need to use Accio,” Hermione said. “It’s got an Extendability charm activated.”

“Thanks,” Hannah said. “Can you see to the mother? Her name’s Mary Cattermole. She and Alfie have both been cursed. I’ll pass Alfie on to you as soon as I treat his head wound. I haven’t even had a chance to help Theo yet.”

Hermione and Draco sank beside the woman. Her eyes flickered under closed lids. 

“Do we know what the curse is?” Hermione said.

“Look at her arm,” Hannah said.

Draco took the woman by the wrist and sucked air between his teeth before he pulled the sleeve up. “Living Stone hex. Granger, this isn’t good.”

The arm was gray and rigid almost to the shoulder already.

“It'll poison her blood. I'm guessing she's Muggleborn, or Halfblood. Look how far up it's gone. Shit.” Draco hummed briefly. “You remember that one?”

“Yes. I think so.”

“Pick whichever part you’re strongest at. I'll come in with you.”

They set to work, wands trained over the border of the damage, where the arm still looked like flesh and bone. Draco took hold of the woman’s arm, testing to see if the hardness was lessening.

“Is it working?” Hermione asked.

“Maybe? It’s not getting worse,” Draco said. 

“Gods save us,” Hannah cried out. She’d switched places with Sophie, who was comforting the boy through another episode of vomiting, and had joined Theo to attend to the other member of the group. “It’s Ernie. Ernie, can you hear us? Do you know where you are?”

“He got us out,” Sophie said dully.

“I thought she did,” Hermione said, indicating the woman.

Sophie shook her head. “She’s a Muggle. We were at King’s Cross, getting ready to come back from a mini-break. There were Death Eaters at the Hogwarts Express platform. They closed in on us, and he came running up and grabbed us.”

Hannah pushed Ernie’s hair back from his face. “He’s a prefect. It’s our job to take care of the students.” Her hand hovered over Theo’s, which was still pressed against Ernie’s body. “Did you look at it? How bad is it?”

“Pretty bad,” Theo said, voice tight. “I’m not a Healer. I’ve poured about half a bottle of dittany on it. I was cleaning it, but the bleeding got worse, so I’m trying to keep pressure on it.”

Hermione looked from Mary’s slack, ashen face to Ernie’s. Sophie’s arm was wrapped around the boy, who coughed out one more gelatinous glob and put his face on his knees.

“That looks almost like a Slug-vomiting Charm,” Hermione said. “More potent, I’d imagine. I’ve got some Blood Replenishing potion in my sack.”

“We’ll need it for Mrs. Cattermole and Ernie, unless you’ve packed quite a lot,” Hannah said. “Is there anything else you can do?”

“The treatment for Slug-vomiting Charm is treacle fudge, and a dose or two of Murtlap tonic,” Draco said. “We can try that first.”

They spent the next quarter hour getting the newcomers stabilized as well as they could. Sophie, although not obviously injured, started shaking uncontrollably and needed a blanket wrapped around her. Theo fetched Seamus and Ron to help transport Mary and Ernie to the bedroom next to his and Hannah’s, so they could check on the wounded easily. 

Hermione took Sophie to another room. She tried to convince Alfie to rest there, but the boy wanted to go back to his mother, so Hermione got extra linens to make up the couch in the room until she could ask Hannah about a bed. Hannah and Draco emptied Hermione’s knapsack of the rest of the medicinal supplies and conferred in low voices, arranging bottles of tinctures and potions into clusters as they strategized how to distribute resources until fresh batches were available.

Later, Hermione lay silent and awake next to Draco (who was also only pretending to sleep; they were huddled back to back for comfort but couldn’t bring themselves to talk through what they’d seen). The image she couldn’t shake from her mind, besides the boy’s red vomit and the mother’s stone arm, was Draco and Hannah pushing potion bottles back and forth, like they were pieces in a game that couldn’t be won.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The family emergency situation has stabilized a lot, thank goodness. Also, AO3 people are SO NICE, oh my God. I really appreciated the kind comments, and especially the people who told me it was okay to take my time. I hate feeling like I let anyone down, so things like this where (I flatter myself) some people might notice if I'm late make me feel nervous about disappointing anyone. At any rate, it turns out people here are lovely. I might as well go ahead and say I'm not as sure I can promise that I'm going to meet each and every week on time, but I have the fic plotted out to the end, and I like what I have left to write, so we're in good shape there.
> 
> Also! Canonically, Mary Cattermole is in fact a witch, of course, but I've changed things here. I kind of wanted to see what things would look like for the Muggles living adjacent to the Wizarding world, so I liked the idea of following a what-if on blood status.

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome! If you enjoy fluff, eventual smut, hurt/comfort, and/or probing questions into the details of HP universe magic and the nature of the human soul, you will find something you like here! This fic updates on Fridays, so you can kick off your weekend with fresh Dramione.
> 
> Disclaimer that the universe and characters belong to J.K. Rowling, whose world I enjoy picking apart and reassembling to my own taste.


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